


Concentrated Capacity For Trouble And Love

by lemon_meringue



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Avengers Family, Cuddling & Snuggling, De-Aged Peter, Domestic Avengers, Everyone Loves Peter Parker, Fluff, Gen, Kidnapping, Light Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, Peter Parker Has a Family, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Protective Avengers, Sick Peter Parker, Sleepy Peter Parker, Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie) Spoilers, Stuffed Toys, The Avengers Are Good Bros, Tickling, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, the avengers are all happy and live together in the compound because i said so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2020-01-16 08:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 51,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18517531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_meringue/pseuds/lemon_meringue
Summary: Ficlets for a verse where Peter is accidentally turned into a child version of himself, and the avengers accidentally turn into parents. rated for *Steve Rogers voice* language."You’ve got a boy with the energy of a little kid, the brain of a genius teenager, and the experience of a vigilante, Avenger apprentice. What are we gonna do with him for multiple weeks?”Tony groans and falls into the couch, covering his face with one hand. Sam is still snickering beside him.“No. Fucking. Clue.”





	1. Peter Was Two Feet Taller A Few Hours Ago

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve had this concept in my head for ages of Peter getting de-aged to an actual child and the Avengers collectively adopting their small son, so now I’m finally writing it. In a world of angst and amidst the Endgame countdown, this has been my soul restoration. Warning for probably ooc bc I adore Peter Parker so all the avengers immediately love him as well. 
> 
> Hope you like it <3
> 
> <@ the russos, please. please don’t take Tony, or any of the o6>

Tony paces anxiously in the living room, itching for a drink but somehow refraining (thank you self control).

 

Most of the other Avengers and Co. are in the living room with him, scattered around, sitting on the couches and bouncing their legs nervously or leaning against the walls. The only people missing, down in the medical wing of the compound, are Bruce and Thor. And Peter.

 

Peter, who shouldn’t have even been in that fight.

 

Though, Tony supposes, ‘fight’ is a loose term.

 

It started with Loki and Thor having some kind of argument about some very square shaped little alien buggers that were wandering around in a cornfield in Pennsylvania. Despite the Gods’ insistence that they had the situation handled and that the threats were, while technically threatening, not actually violent yet, a few of the Avengers had suited up and hopped on the jet.

 

Tony, Natasha, and Steve were supposed to be going.

 

Peter was not invited.

 

Somehow, the kid still ended up in a fucking cornfield in fucking Pennsylvania, and then that little grubby looking square creature was throwing things at them, and there was this blue powder and Loki did some magic shit, god, Tony doesn’t even know, and then Peter was falling over unconscious.

 

Tony caught him before he hit the ground and looked very pointedly at Thor, who quickly assured him that Peter would be ok, but they definitely needed to get him to the compound asap. After which, Thor gave Loki a death-threat glare and told him he should get back to Asgard (where, exactly, Asgard was currently positioned, Tony’s not sure).

 

So now Tony is waiting impatiently as ever in the living room while Thor and Bruce take care of Peter, and “wait for the effects to kick in” as Thor put it. He said some people are immune to the plants (because apparently the freaky blue powder was a _plant_ ), so to preserve Peter’s dignity in the event he is unaffected, Thor would wait and see, and if Peter succumbs to the drug, then the boy himself could reveal the outcome.

 

Tony hates that logic passionately, but he trusts the God, who assures him constantly that no harm will come to Peter.

 

It’s still hell, pacing around the coffee table, waiting to figure out what’s going on.

 

They wait for maybe twenty more minutes after Clint tells Tony “for the millionth time, Tony, if Thor says the kid’s fine, then he’s fine” before Thor enters the living room.

 

“So? What’s the verdict Point Break? What’s goin’ on?” Tony asks intently, and the group collectively turn to Thor. Steve stands up. Thor sighs and gives him a sympathetic smile.

 

“It appears the spider boy is susceptible to the Jegne, after all,” he begins. Tony doesn’t want to try to pronounce that word but he’s pretty sure those were the freaky square guys.

 

“And?” Comes Bucky’s voice from where he’s braced against the wall at the back of the room. Thor seems to shift a bit uncomfortable, but he composes himself and offers them a reassuring expression.

 

“I assure you, the condition is temporary. He should be restored within a few weeks. He suffers no pain, though Banner has confirmed that his spider abilities will be dormant until he is returned to an unaffected state. I would request, on Peter’s behalf, that you try to keep judgement to yourself. He is not particularly fond of his situation,” the god says, before turning and gesturing to the hall.

 

Bruce comes into view first, one of his arms angled back. And then Tony sees the hand holding Banner’s hand, and then-

  
Holy shit.

 

What the fuck?

 

It’s Peter. Tony knows it’s Peter. It _looks_  like Peter. But he’s… he’s…

 

 _Small_.

 

He must be under four feet tall. Same unruly chestnut hair and big, caramel colored doe eyes, but… his hair looks fluffier. Those eyes are bigger. His nose is tiny and round and his cheeks are a little chubby, painted pink, and he’s got freckles, and his lips look a little less thin, and his ears are puny, like he hasn’t grown into his own face yet. He’s wearing one of his own hoodies, Tony recognizes the faded red sweatshirt, but it swamps him. The top cuts off just an inch or so above the boxers, which are definitely boxers (Tony has seen them in the fucking laundry) but reach the tops of Peter’s knees now. And he’s barefoot and holding Bruce’s hand and Tony can see how he’s stumbling over his own feet a little, even from here, and his eyes are a little red rimmed and glossy, and, jesus christ, holy shit-

 

He’s so fucking _l_ _ittle_.

 

Peter looks at Tony, worrying his bottom lip and glancing only between Tony, Thor, and Bruce, avoiding looking at the other Avengers. That is, until Sam Wilson bursts out laughing.

 

“Oh man, Pete, how,” he’s laughing to hard, “how the hell did you manage that?! You’re like, you’re like a toddler or something!” He’s bending over the couch, slapping the cushions. Clint is chuckling in a more good natured way, and Tony’s pretty sure Wanda is smirking where she’s in the doorway. Tony, however, can’t really do anything more than stare.

 

“It’s not funny!” Peter shouts, and his voice is so _high_  and _squeaky_ , and it must mortify him because he releases Bruce’s hand to slap both of his palms over his mouth.

 

Sam just laughs harder, and now Bucky is trying not to, too. Steve gives Peter a smile somewhere stuck between amused, sympathetic, and awed, and Tony-- he just keeps staring.

 

“Pete,” he begins, but he has no idea what to say. Somehow, some way, those freaky little squared aliens turned a teenaged Spider-Man into a ruddy little, what, eight-year-old, maybe? “How, I mean, are you,” shit, “are you ok?” He settles on. Which was apparently the wrong answer, because Peter narrows his eyes and takes his hands away to frown all scandalized, and almost stomps one of his feet when he passionately replies, and hell, it’s _cute_.

 

“No! No I am not ok! I was two feet taller a few hours ago!” He exclaims. Tony flinches a little and Steve comes to the rescue.

 

“It’s alright, Peter. Um, sometimes, sometimes really weird stuff can happen in a fight and, well, at least it’s temporary,” he offers. Captain America should be better at comforting children, Tony thinks, but then again, he’s not really one to talk. Peter just pouts, _pouts_ , and looks up at Bruce like he might start crying.

 

“Exactly. You’ll be back to normal in a few weeks. It’s, um, hey, hey, Peter, it’s gonna be fine. You’re ok, you’re not _hurt_ , and that’s what’s important, right?” The doctor tries, and Peter sniffles and nods a little, and Tony’s glad he doesn’t try to argue with that logic. It’s some damn good logic, really. Tony would rather have some magically de-aged and emotionally fragile Peter than an actually harmed Peter.

 

“I guess, yeah,” Peter says quietly, and Tony almost misses it because Sam is still laughing. The kid cringes and looks hurt by his own voice. Which, ok. Tony would probably be physically pained if he spoke and heard his child-self, too.

 

“Peter, I think it would be in your best interest to consume some sustenance.” Thor says, and Peter nods. So he makes his way slowly across the living room and towards the kitchen, and Tony feels for the kid having to learn how to walk with these smaller legs and bare feet (look at his feet! They’re smaller than Tony’s _hand_  for chrissake!). He leaves the adults in the living room together, Sam dramatically wiping his eyes.

 

“Ok, so, here’s what we know,” Bruce begins. “Peter got de-aged, somehow, in that fight. Thor?”

 

“It’s a harmless little spell, in this situation, really,” Thor picks up. “The Jegne are a relatively peaceful people. The intended effect is less to render enemies defenseless and more to make them incapable of attack. That is why his abilities will lie dormant for the duration of the spell. He will be restored to proper form and regain his power when it wears off. It will last between two and four weeks. I have personally experienced the effects before, and I can assure you, he will be completely well. A bit upset, but well.”

 

“I checked all his vitals and ran all the scans and tests I could think of. He’s ok,” Bruce says, but he’s looking directly at Tony. Thor nods, and channels his gaze to Tony as well.

 

“I would prefer to stay and provide assistance, but I have a bit of a mess to clean up on Asgard. I must return.” He says. Tony nods blankly, because it’s all he can really do. “My apologies, friends, I wish you good luck.” The god adds, and then he’s making his way towards the door. They watch him go with nods and a few mumbled goodbyes, mostly waiting for the earth to stop shaking before they turn to Bruce again. Asshole. 'Hey, your intern/mentee/surrogate son got magic-ass de-aged, good luck with that I guess! Bye!' Tony doesn't have time to think about how much he wants to deck Thor in the face.

 

“What else.” He prompts instead, because he knows Bruce must have a whole mess of details to provide. The doctor just shrugs and sits on the couch next to Nat.

 

“There’s pretty much nothing we can do. Incurable until it wears off. Thor said he won’t regress or anything, but that he’s got to deal with a teenager’s brain in a child’s body, and will probably cry and sleep a lot. So,” Bruce looks pointedly at Sam and Clint both, “be nice to the kid.” Sam puts his hands up defensively but Clint crosses his arms with a smirk.

 

“No promises,” He shrugs. Natasha shoots him a glare. Tony just sighs.

 

“Ok. There really isn’t any protocol for this. What do we do?” He looks between Steve and Bruce. He really, really wants that drink now. “We pretty much have to keep him here, because if his smoking hot aunt finds out I let her beloved nephew get babified, she’ll murder me. That, and no way in hell is it safe for him to be outside this compound when we have nothing but Thor’s word and some vague expectations to explain his condition.”

 

“Is he still in school?” Steve asks.

 

“Midtown High School concluded classes last Monday,” Friday’s voice supplies helpfully.

 

“So we tell May that he’s spending a couple weeks at the compound for training?” Bruce offers. Tony rubs his eyes.

 

“Friday, text May. Scratch that. Ask Pepper to text May and make up some shit about super important training, beg, I don’t care, just make sure his aunt will let him stay here and won’t ask questions.” He thinks a moment longer.

 

“Also, remind me to place an order for child sized clothes.” He pauses, looking back to Bruce. “Where’s the suit?”

 

“Back in the medical.”

 

“Ok, well, no spider powers. I’m locking that suit up, or he will get himself hurt. Guaranteed.”

 

Steve nods along to everything Tony says, then straightens up. “So what do we do?” He asks. At Tony’s look, he continues. “With the kid. You’ve got a boy with the energy of a little kid, the brain of a genius teenager, and the experience of a vigilante, Avenger apprentice. What are we gonna do with him for multiple weeks?”

 

Tony groans and falls into the couch, covering his face with one hand. Sam is still snickering beside him.

 

“No. Fucking. Clue.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so many of these planned!!! Hope you liked this intro into my happy place!!


	2. 72 Hours In, And Tony Is Already A Dad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been three days, and Peter is dying of boredom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun story about how I just have a list of headcanons for this verse, so translation from headcanon to drabble probably makes these all read weirdly. Whatever, there's cute things coming up. 
> 
> Hope you like it <3

Peter is. Adjusting.

 

Kind of.

 

He’s coping really well, for the most part, but _man_  is it rough being this short again.

 

That very first afternoon, he went to the kitchen to get a snack (at Thor’s prompting) and couldn’t reach anything at all. He had to drag a chair over and stand on it to grab a box of crackers, which was so distressing that he stress-ate them while sitting on the counter.

 

Needless to say, when Tony walked in and saw Peter verging on tears, stuffing his face with crisps that were now about the size of his palm, the man was kind of at a loss for words. Peter felt bad for his mentor. If he’d not gone with to Pennsylvania, just done what he was told for once, this wouldn’t have happened. But now he’s here, stuck in the compound, no spider powers, surrounded by Avengers who are all two feet taller than him, with nothing to do but pester the adults with his condition.

 

Parker luck; it sure is something.

 

Apparently, Tony ordered him some new fitting clothes, considering everything in his room is meant for an athletically inclined teenager. Thankfully, it was just a bunch of plain t-shirts, mostly solid colors and some with horizontal stripes, and a few simple hoodies (Peter would have lost his mind if there was anything particularly childish about the clothing). The shorts and jeans were fine, almost all of it was fine, thanks to it being proportional to him and not blatantly small so long as he focused just on the clothes.

 

The socks and the boxers sent him spiraling into a dramatic monologue about suffering, though.

 

He was getting used to everything pretty quickly, and clinging to the notion that it would be over eventually to keep himself sane. It’s not that bad, he tells himself. Kinda cool, maybe?

 

If suddenly being a non-powered shrimp in a building full of superheroes with impaired child-interaction abilities is cool.

 

At first, Peter was bursting with nerves about how he’s basically just secured his position as Designated Annoyer Of Avengers for up to a month, while also reducing himself to being incapable of reaching anything. He'd expected some support, too, of course. They’re the _Avengers_ , they’re _good people_. He was prepared for the reassurance and kindness to come along with the teasing and (unfortunately) irritation.

 

He was not, however, expecting for anyone's paternal instincts to kick in.

 

It started with Tony.

 

Iron Man had placed very strict regulations on his suit right from the start. Spider suit, web slingers, and, consequently, Karen, are all off limits, locked up in the high tech area of the lab. Which Peter is also not allowed in.

 

“Come _on_  Mr. Stark, I work in there all the time!” Peter complains, and he’s not exactly happy that his voice automatically sounds whiny when it’s this high pitched.

 

“Yeah. When you have enhanced healing and reflexes and bigger hands, it’s all yours, kid. Right now, though? No go.” Tony replies, not looking up from where he’s got a screwdriver in an iron man helmet.

 

“It’s not like I’m actually a kid, though. I’ll be careful! I’ll be super careful!” Peter replies, hustling around the table Tony’s at to stand next to him. Probably annoyingly close, but it’s been three days since the… _incident_ … and he’s itching for something, _anything_  to do.

 

"Not a chance, Pete. But you can mess around in here all you want,” Tony offers, giving him a side eye that betrays his suppressed smirk. Prick. This section of the lab is full of scrap metal and blueprints and holograms that Peter can design and edit (“Mr. Stark, this is _so cool_ ,” he’d said when Tony first showed him), but other than some screwdrivers and a couple wrenches, and a very dead car engine, there’s pretty much nothing to do. Not that Peter doesn’t enjoy tinkering, but he can only take an old style air conditioning unit apart and reassemble it so many times. He wants to mess around with his web fluids, explore the excessive functions of his suit that he just doesn’t have time to delve into during patrol.

 

“But there’s nothing to _do_  in here. What about my webs? There’s nothing ‘dangerous’ about messing with them,” the boy asks hopefully, making air quotes around the word ‘dangerous’. Because it’s true. Most of the chemicals are completely harmless in the quantities that Peter uses them and the ways he combines them.

 

“Not happening, kid,” Tony begins, then turns to him. “What d’you mean ‘nothing to do’? There’s eight different holographic designs you have access to. Why don’t you look at those?”

 

“I _have_ , Mr. Stark. Like, twelve times. That’s what you told me yesterday.” Peter groans, bending his torso over the table so he’s on his tiptoes, stretching his arms out and face planting dramatically.

 

“Why don’t you go bother Steve, then? Or Sam? I’m sure they’d love the company of a five year old with a vocab bigger than theirs.” Tony muses, turning to face Peter and lean on his elbow, not even trying to hide his smirk. Peter turns his head to look up at the men and narrows his eyes, sticking out his tongue. Tony’s grin just widens.

 

“Funny. Super funny. This body is at least eight.”

 

“Seven, max,” Tony snarks, running a hand through his beard. Peter rolls his eyes and slowly slides off the table, melting off the edge and making a puddle of himself, sprawled out on the floor.

 

“I’m dying. There’s nothing to do and I’m dying.” He deadpans, staring blankly at the ceiling. Tony sighs, standing up off his stool and reaching down. He grabs Peter by the upper arms and pulls the kid up, despite Peter going boneless like a rag doll until he’s on his feet.

 

“Come on, take a look at this,” Tony says, stepping back to let Peter see the helmet. Peter beams, his attitude taking a 180. Tony’s let him observe Iron Man suits all the time, but rarely lets him touch them. “I’m re-calibrating that front part of the mask,” the man continues, pointing to the panel that’s been removed, still connected by a few thin wires.

 

“Do you even use this one, though?” Peter asks, remembering the nano tech suit. Tony shrugs.

 

“Not really, but the coding is a little different and if I upgrade it I can implement some of this old helmet’s function into the nano suit without having to redo it all,” he explains. Peter nods, but he kind of stops paying attention.

 

“Can I?” He asks, looking up at Tony with his best puppy-dog eyes. Which must be way more effective now that he’s smaller, because where the man usually would make a quip and say ‘next time’, he looks mildly uncomfortable, stares at the wall while scratching his chin for a second, and sighs.

 

“Go ahead, just don’t touch the-”

 

“What’s this do?”

 

And before they even finish their thoughts, Peter’s hand is half way inside the helmet and then the two of them are six feet away from the table, the helmet sending out little sparks. Peter is dazed. What just happened? He didn’t even get to  _touch_ it yet.

 

It takes him a second to realize that Tony has an arm around his stomach and he’s stuck to the man’s side, having been wrenched away from the table. He looks up at his mentor with something both confused and apologetic.

 

“Uh, sorry?” He murmurs. Tony looks down at him and rubs his eyes, releasing his grip on the kid.

 

“And this is why you’re not allowed in the other labs,” he says. Peter’s jaw drops.

 

“What?! I didn’t even touch it, Mr. Stark, that’s so not fair-”

 

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, sure. Whatever you say, kid,” Tony cuts him off. Peter lets his head fall to the side so dramatically it almost tips him over.

 

“Mr. Staaaark,” he whines, because he is whining now. Tony just sighs and rolls his eyes.

 

“Tell you what, kid. Go keep yourself busy for a couple hours, let me finish this, and then I’ll get you something to do? Ok?” He offers. Peter straightens up and bounces on his heels.

 

“Really?”

  
  
“Yes, really.”

 

Peter beams. “Yes! Thank you!” He does a little double fist pump of victory and grins widely at his mentor. He has no idea what the hell he’s going to do for a few hours, but he’s so ready to have _something_  to occupy his time. Tony just scoffs, smirking, and brushes him off.

 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome,” He grumbles, ruffling Peter’s hair and watching the boy bound over to the exit. “Oh, and Pete?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Whatever you do, _please_  be careful.” Tony says, sounding like an exasperated… _parent_.

 

Peter decides not to reflect on what of the last ten minutes could be seen as parental coming from Tony and makes a dramatic sigh, pulling to door open.

 

“Ok, ok, whatever you say _dad_ ,” He drawls. He sticks out his tongue again and is out the door before the wad of paper Tony throws at him can hit.

 

So he misses the pleased grin that Iron Man wears on his face as he turns back to the helmet.

 

 _This kid_ , he thinks.

 

It’s going to be a long couple of weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RDJ just posted a picture on instagram with Tom and said 'I love you kid' and I'm screaming, Marvel can pry IronDad and SpiderSon from my cold, dead hands


	3. Peter Is Not Allowed Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter isn't supposed to have coffee. He, of course, will not stand for this rule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re gonna assume this is a fix it fic and that everything from cw, iw, and endgame happened but are all better now. Bc that’s what I need in my life. Also, this and the next chapter take place on the same day. Technically it was one chapter but I wanted to split it up so the chapters are more equal lengths and not 1k, 1k, and then 3k. Keep ‘em similar, you know?

Of all people, anyone could guess that Tony would be the (first) one to get all fatherly (right away). Peter is practically his kid as-is, and spending 24-7 with a much smaller, needier version of the kid was bound to make him act all parental.

 

No one was really expecting him, or themselves, to actually enjoy it so much, though.

 

The fifth day is, of the few days Peter has been small, the most difficult.

 

It began normally (as normal as can be).

 

Peter woke up in a bed that was still much too big, rolled off the edge and stumbled his way to the kitchen. He decided after the first night that he’d wear clothes that regular Peter could fit into, just in case the effects were reversed in his sleep. When Dr. Banner was entertaining the concept in pity, Peter explained that his spider healing might speed up the reversal. Which, ok. The adults had to admit, the kid has a point.

 

So by the fifth morning, it was very much normal to see Peter slug his way into the kitchen, his hair a mess, eyes half lidded, wearing a much oversized t-shirt and regular Peter’s boxers as shorts.

 

It was also very much normal for him to stand on his tiptoes and reach for the coffee pot.

 

And very much normal for the closest adult to snatch it out of his reach.

 

Additionally normal if that adult happened to be a super soldier, in which case Peter would grab onto their forearm as the life giving coffee was taken away, and consequently be lifted high off the ground, the boy attempting to bargain his way into a cup.

 

Normal yet still for someone else, usually Tony, to have to come over and grab Peter under the arms, removing him from clinging to the soldier (it was Steve today, but had been Bucky yesterday).

 

“Come on, Mr. Rogers, Cap, Mr. America listen, please, Steve I need it-” Peter tried, as Tony pulled him up and away from his grip on Steve’s arm.

 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter complained. He’d never get used to how whiny his voice sounded, now that he was… _younger_  again.

 

“Not happening, kid.” Tony said, setting the boy on his feet, definitely not at all unnerved about how light the kid is. “We’ve been over this. Every. Morning. You want something to drink? We’ve got water. Milk. Three different fruit juices. Cap made _kale smoothies_  if you want one. But no coffee.”  

 

Peter groaned in response, looking up longingly to where Steve was setting the pot on the island counter, in front of where Natasha and Bucky were eating tortilla-wrapped somethings.

 

“You don’t even know if it’ll do anything bad. But I know for a fact that it will make me awake,” Peter started, looking at Tony with his best attempt at convincing confidence. Tony rolled his eyes.

 

“You’re right. We don’t know if anything bad will happen. But it _might_ , so no coffee.” He said, taking an authoritative tone at the end that made Peter want to snark him more than anything in the world. Thor had told Bruce a whole manner of different things about the spell, things that would influence the effects. Make it last longer or give weird side-effects if they aren’t careful.

 

There is a list of Maybe Could Be Bad So Avoid At All Costs items that are prohibited to Peter. High exposure to UV light (which earned him a lecture on sunscreen, because apparently he’s stupid or something), deep-sea fish, high exposure to pollen (as if the Avengers needed another reason to keep him cooped up inside), lead (which Tony had filtered out of all the water and thus decided that Peter wouldn’t be allowed in any of the labs at all, at which the boy had started crying. It was mortifying, even though Dr. Banner and Thor said it would happen a lot easier. Tony promised to bring him tools and things to tinker with that don’t have lead in them, but it wasn’t the same building little circuit boards at the coffee table in the living room, without DUM-E or the familiarity of Tony’s lab), coconut oil, and _coffee_  are all on that list.

 

“Big words coming from a man with the self preservation of a moth,” Peter grumbled. Natasha snorted a little from where she was sitting at the island and both Bucky and Steve contained little smiles. Tony just narrowed his eyes at Peter, poking him in the forehead.

 

“Watch it, Pete. I have permission from your aunt to ground you,” the man said, smirking when Peter’s jaw dropped.

 

“Not cool, Mr. Stark. Not cool.”

 

Tony just shrugged, grabbing the coffee pot and refilling his own mug. Peter watched the action with an unreadable expression of racing thoughts, finally settling.

 

“Can I at least have a regular glass? Or a mug?” He asked, going around Steve to open the fridge. The jug of milk was too goddamn heavy in his opinion, but he’s stepping back not just from super strength, but average teenager strength as well, so he guesses it’s just another evil. He hauled the gallon onto the counter with a heaving toss, oblivious to the small, fond grins the author adults watched him with.

 

“Nope,” Tony scoffed. “Not after the mess you made.” He added, setting his mug down to open the higher cupboard, grabbing one of the few plastic cups he owned. He bought them the second day (first _full_  day) of Peter’s condition, when the boy had dropped a glass (“I wasn’t expecting it to be so _heavy_ , Mr. Stark, I’m _sorry_ ,”), shattering it on the floor. The shards had been tiny and absolutely everywhere. Tony was safe still wearing his lab shoes, but Peter was barefoot, and consequently had to be lifted to the safety of the carpeted living room, much to his disapproval and profuse apologies.

 

Tony set the plastic yellow cup down on the counter, pulling the jug of milk to himself and filling the cup, Peter’s unamused expression in the corner of his eye. The older man acted impartial and vaguely amused at the kid’s distress, but he’d be lying if he said it didn't feel warm and pleasantly… _domestic_. _Familial_. Thoughts for a different day.

 

“I said I was sorry.”

 

“I forgive you.”

 

“Then why do you hate me so much?”

 

“You’re dramatic.”

 

“You’re mean.”

 

“You’re a brat.”

 

“You take that back!” Peter gasped, and Tony was turning to snark him back and hand the kid his cup, a smirk on his face, when Peter darted past him. He slipped under the man’s arms easily to his other side, snatching Tony’s mug off the counter. He’d downed half the coffee before Tony practically lunged at him and snatched it back. Peter was grinning like a cat, grabbing his cup of milk (with two hands) and backing away from Tony before the man could swat him upside the head.

 

“You’re a little shit, Parker,” Tony grumbled. Peter just smiled cheekily at him, still stepping away.

 

“It’s one of my talents,” he said happily, glad to have gotten the coffee he obviously didn’t even need anymore. He backed right into Clint, who was slugging his way into the kitchen. Peter nearly dropped his cup, but Clint reached around and steadied him, one hand on the kid’s shoulder, another around the rim of the cup, keeping it upright.

 

“Woah, easy there small fry,” Clint mused, which made Peter’s rushed apologies cut off so he could glare. Clint just smirked and ruffled his hair, passing him and walking towards the island, where the coffee pot sat. Tony was still glaring at Peter, who was still smirking back (which looked devious and adorable at the same time, if Tony was honest), as Clint picked up the pot, flipping off the lid and chugging. Steve rolled his eyes and Bucky watched with almost careful fascination, and Peter walked around the back of the counters with his milk to stand between Natasha and Bucky’s stools.

 

He gave Nat the biggest begging eyes he could, saying ‘please’ in the least annoying way possible, holding his cup out to her a little bit. She eyed him for a moment, unreadable, with the other four adults’ eyes switching between Peter’s pleading face and Natasha. For a moment she did nothing. And then she was smiling and rolling her eyes, one of her hands covering Peter’s around the cup to bring it closer to her, grabbing her coffee mug and pouring some into his milk.

 

Peter’s face lit up and he fell into a mantra of ‘thank you’s, waiting excitedly for her to release his cup so he could start chugging. The milk-to-coffee ratio had to be nine-to-one, but he was satisfied that he got any caffeine at all. When Nat looked up and saw Steve and Tony’s disapproving faces, she just shrugged.

 

“Spiders gotta stick together.” She stated coolly, and no one really had the guts to reprimand her other than a lowly muttered ‘Unbelievable, Natasha. Unbe-fuckin-lievable’.

 

Peter was thoroughly pleased, to say in the least.


	4. People Forget That Clint Is An Actual Parent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint Barton is a man of many talents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this chapter takes place on the same day as the previous. 
> 
> Also, huge huge huge thank you to everyone leaving such sweet comments!!! The support is real and I'm thriving off it, thank you so much!!! All the love <3

So the day had gone on.

 

Peter worked on building a 3,000 piece star wars Lego set that Tony got for him, a desperate attempt to keep the boy entertained, but he had to take breaks to wander around the compound and attempt to talk to the other Avengers to keep from getting bored. Wanda and Vision, whom he rarely saw, were in the kitchen making cookies (which Peter absolutely refused to believe was a set up to keep him busy)(that’s exactly what it was) later in the afternoon, and Peter helped in the only ways someone as short and athletically un-inclined as eight-year-old him could: messily cracking eggs, measuring flour, and adding chocolate chips. He enjoyed himself nonetheless.

 

It was a couple hours after dinner when he started to feel under the weather. His stomach kept cramping up a little, and he could feel tiny bubbles of nausea deep in his gut, and his mouth was watering. He ignored it the best he could, passionate about not getting sick (or at least, not letting any Avengers _know_  he’s sick and therefore bother them with more Peter-needs-help problems) in his child-state.

 

Inevitably, though, he ended up as he is now, curled up on his bed, a tight ball under the blankets, trembling and squeezing his eyes closed to keep from crying, because his stomach _hurts_. Hurts so bad, and he can’t decide if it feels like he’s been stabbed or if he’s gonna throw up. So he just tries to contort himself tighter, willing the pain to go away.

 

If this is karma for the coffee thing, Peter swears, he’s going to throw himself into the sun. Or maybe he’ll ask Thor for help with that.

 

Friday asks him multiple times if he’s ok, to which Peter can only mumble out strained little ‘yes!’s and hope she doesn’t tell Tony.

 

But of course she does.

 

Because she’s like that.

 

And then there are soft knocks on his door, and Tony cracks it open to see Peter curled up on his bed in obvious pain, and the man looks like he has never been further out of his element. Which, yeah. He probably hasn’t. He and Pepper haven’t really had time or gotten settled enough from the combined Stark Industries and Avenger business to be more serious about that family they want to have, so Tony’s not really familiar with comforting or taking care of children. Hell, he’d just started figuring out a teenager, but a teenager with the combined vulnerability of both said teen _and_  a child is... 

 

Well. It’s a lot to work with.

 

So Tony steps softly over to Peter’s bed and sits on the edge, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

 

“Pete? Kiddo, hey, what’s wrong?” His voice is quiet. Peter sniffles and breathes a shaky breath.

 

“S-stomach h-hurts..” he mumbles, whimpering at the pain it brings him just to talk. Tony nods and looks off around the room, anywhere but Peter, rubbing the boy’s shoulder. Finally he looks back at the kid and replies with a barely concealed waver to his voice.

 

“Ok, I’m gonna go get something to help, alright? Be right back, Pete,” he says, and then he’s leaving just as soon as he got there. Peter can’t blame him. He must look like a right mess.

 

A few minutes after Tony leaves, the door is opening again. Peter can’t look up, but he’s pretty sure it’s not Mr. Stark back in the room. That’s confirmed when he sees Clint sitting down next to him.

 

“Mr. Barton?” He asks warily. Clint nods his head and gives him a kind smile, and Peter is thoroughly confused.

 

“Got a couple questions for you, Pete. Think you’re up to it?” The bowman asks. Peter nods.

 

“Ok. What’s your stomach hurt like? Like you got punched hurt or pukey-hurt?” He prompts. Peter swallows hard.

 

“B-both,” he manages. Clint nods.

 

“You ever drink coffee when you were a kid?” Peter frowns. Now that Clint mentions it, he doesn’t think he did. He shakes his head, which, ouch. Clint nods again, rubbing a soothing hand on Peter’s shoulder.

 

“Alright, Pete. I’ve got some ideas to help you out, ok? Just hang tight.” He says. Then he’s gone, too, and Peter groans when the door closes because he would take his stomach out of his body at this point, if it meant relief. Vaguely he wonders if this kind of pain is something MJ experiences on her period (he’s heard her vent about it before) and decides he should tell her how much he admires her, some time.

 

It’s not very long before Clint is back. This time, he sets some things on Peter’s night stand, but the boy doesn’t really register what they are.

 

“Ok, you gotta work with me here, Pete. Can you do that?” He asks. Peter nods. He’ll try. Clint gives him another smile, and then he’s got an arm around Peter’s back, pulling him forward. Peter lets the man move him while he lays something down where Peter was a moment ago, then pushes him onto his back.

 

And no, nope, that hurts worse, and Peter tries to turn again but Clint holds his shoulder down.

 

“I know, I know, just hang on buddy,” the bowman soothes, and his voice sounds. Nice. Peter holds his breath and can start to register something warm under his back. A heating pad, maybe? Feels like it.

 

Then Clint is pushing his knees down and his arms up, lifting his shirt too, all exposing his stomach and forcing Peter to uncurl and it feels so awful Peter wants to cry. He thinks he does, a little. But then Clint’s hand is on his stomach, and there’s something warm and smooth being spread on the (apparently sensitive) skin of his tummy. He squirms a little, because it kind of tickles, but Clint keeps one hand on his crossed arms, still hugging his chest, that holds him mostly still.

 

Peter doesn’t ask what the stuff is, but it smells kind of sweet and kind of earthy and Clint sorta digs the flat of his palm and his knuckles and the pads of his fingers into certain divots of Peter’s belly, kneading his hand as much as he gently rubs at the skin. And it doesn’t take very long at all for Peter to start to relax and the pain starts to ease.

 

“Used to happen to my oldest all the time,” Clint says absently.

 

Right.

 

That’s right.

 

Clint is literally a dad. Peter forgot about that.

 

He just nods along as Clint starts telling him stories about his kids, working his hand into Peter’s stomach, a little lower, and little higher, a little further to the sides. Eventually he gets used to it and the tickling goes away, mostly. So Peter relaxes even more, because it’s like Clint is pressing the cramps away, and the smell of whatever it is on the man’s hand kills the nausea, and the heating pad is warming up everything and he can feel it all through him, soothing, and wow, Peter is tired. So without really meaning to, he closes his eyes and drifts off.

 

Clint continues for a little while longer, until he’s sure Peter’s deep enough into sleep that if the stomach ache comes back, it won’t be enough to wake him up. Then he takes the towel he brought and gently pats at the oily lotion, not to wipe it all away, but enough so that when he pulls Peter’s shirt back down and lays the blanket over him, it won’t stain anything.

 

He leaves the glass of water, alka-seltzer dissolved inside, on the kid’s night stand and runs his clean hand through the boy’s hair before he goes. He’s a good kid. Reminds him of his own, makes him feel a little more than a little homesick.

 

Carrying the towel and bottle out of Peter’s room, he closes the door quietly and makes his way back to the living room. Tony (and, really, all of his friends) is looking at him like he already knows, and Clint supposes Friday probably updated them.

 

“I keep forgetting you have literal kids,” Sam comments as Clint tosses the items aside and plops down on the couch, throwing his legs and feet over Natasha and Steve’s laps.

 

“Can’t imagine why,” Clint smirks. It was either him or Bucky that would’ve been sent to Peter’s rescue. Bucky, because he used to take care of sickly pre-serum Steve all the time. In the end, though, being an actual father and Tony’s perpetual wariness (though he half-heartedly denies it) of the soldier ended up sending Clint in. He’s actually grateful, in all honesty. He really misses his kids. Peter's kind of like a surrogate-son right now.

 

He wonders if the boy will mind the parental way his younger self will make (read: is already making) the Avengers, Clint included, act. Probably not.

 

Iron Man practically adopted him as a teenager, anyways.

 

This is just like living with his ‘dad’s extended family. Of superheroes.

 

…

 

Nah. He won’t mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It sounds wack but the coffee causing problems thing is based on a young cousin of mine. Also, the fact that mcu Clint is literally a father is probably one of my favorite things about his character (even though the mcu did Clint and Nat so dirty by killing their comic personalities) bc he’s such a Train Wreck that you’d never expect it
> 
> Edit: turns out my young cousin is just allergic to coffee........ but we'll pretend this still works lol <3


	5. Peter and Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and his new friend Bucky. Or, where the Winter Soldier is domestic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!! It's been a hot minute, sorry, I was Endgame prepping all last week and I saw the movie last Thursday, which totally wrecked me. If you haven't seen it I cannot recommend it enough, I couldn't possibly count how many times I laughed and cried. I'm traumatized but it was beautiful. I promise I'm not dropping off the face of the earth or anything. I also promise I won't post or incorporate any spoilers at all in my stories (probably ever but at the very least not for like,,, months) so rest assured, this will remain spoiler free and as happy as I am physically capable of!!!
> 
> Domestic Bucky with Little Peter is my wholesome favorite. I love them. That's all.

The Avengers are having a meeting.

 

The "main core Avengers".

 

The "Avengers who still have powers". 

 

The "Avengers who aren't four feet tall and squeaky".

 

Needless to say, Peter was a little upset about it. He hated being excluded from the super hero business, and it doesn't seem fair, but he really didn't want to argue with them, and he trusts Mr. Stark not to keep him in the dark about important things. It was probably just a SHIELD mission that Peter wouldn't have gotten invited on anyways. 

 

Doesn't mean he wouldn't have liked to attend. 

 

'You'll be bored out of your mind,' Mr. Stark had said. 'It's a little above your pay grade,' Clint joked. 'It won't take too long,' Steve promised. 

 

Well.

 

Three hours seems like too long to Peter. 

 

The only people who aren't in the meeting (other than himself) are Wanda, Vision, and Bucky. Wanda and Vision are, well, Peter doesn't even know where. And Bucky is in the gym, being broody and intimidating and Peter is still locked out of the lab. He took apart and reassembled a Lego set, watched a few episodes of Parks And Rec, even took a nap for twenty minutes.

 

After which he woke up craving marshmallows.

 

Really, really craving marshmallows.

 

And the Avengers are still in their meeting when he sneaks up to the door. 

 

So now he's in desperate need of marshmallows but they're on the high shelf (not that he can even reach the low shelf) and Friday yells at him when he climbs on the counters (when there aren't Tall People in the room to make sure he doesn't "fall and die"). 

 

He stands outside the meeting room doors for another minute or so before he resolves to go find someone to get the marshmallows for him. 

 

Someone, meaning the only person he knows where to find.

 

Bucky.

 

He's going go ask the Winter Soldier, in the middle of training, to get him marshmallows. 

 

He'll admit, he's a little nervous. Though not because he's worried about Bucky being upset-- more like worried about walking up to a legendary assassin and embarrassing himself by asking for marshmallows as if he's a literal small child. 

 

Nevertheless, he's having a lot of trouble resisting the cravings, and it's this or hop on the counters and have Mr. Stark scold him later.

 

So he finds himself pushing open the very heavy doors to the gym.

 

Or, more like, _struggling_  to push open the very heavy doors to the gym. He barely gets them open enough to slip inside without getting squished, making a sound similar to a soft yelp when he only just manages to get through. 

 

The action makes his presence known to Bucky, who's across the gym doing pull-ups with just his flesh arm. Which. Ok. That's. Not intimidating at all. 

 

Bucky looks over at him and they make silent eye contact for what Peter things is way, way too long, before Bucky looks away and resumes his work out. Peter takes a deep breath and it's his stomach's adamant need for marshmallows that gets him to slowly walk over the the equipment Bucky's using.

 

"Um... Mr... Mr. Barnes?" He starts quietly, cursing himself for acting shy. Bucky stops again and hangs from his arm for a few seconds before dropping down. He lands with a loud sound and Peter thanks Thor and all the other gods, wherever they are, that he doesn't flinch. 

 

The soldier turns around slowly, grabbing a towel and putting it to his neck. But when he's finally facing Peter, his face is... not scary. There's no deeply ingrained scowl or hardness in his expression. He doesn't look particularly overjoyed, but, he's just. Open? Kind of blank? Not nearly as intimidating as Peter was expecting.

 

"You know you can just call me Bucky. What's up, Pete?" He asks. Peter swallows hard and forgets to reply for a few seconds.

 

"Oh! Um, so. I, uh, was going to ask you a, a favor?" He stutters out, pretty sure his cheeks are turning pink. He absently plays with the hem of his long sleeved shirt and avoids eye contact for a few moments. 

 

Bucky just cocks an eyebrow and offers him an encouraging little smile. A small, lopsided curve at the corner of his mouth that eases some of the electric butterflies in Peter's stomach. 

 

"Could you, maybe, if you're not super busy, um, c-could you help me get the marshmallows down? I, uh, I can't reach..." He stumbles through his request, trying both to look at and avoid looking at Bucky. Oh man, he's so stupid. He should've just climbed on the counter. Now Bucky's going to think he's an actual child and--

 

"Marshmallows?" Bucky asks. His eyebrow go up a little further and he starts to smirk, which makes Peter's face heat up a little more. He nods.

 

And then Bucky's smirk turns a little soft and if Peter was even remotely less oblivious, he'd call the small smile the soldier offers him _fond_.

 

"Sure thing, kid," Bucky says, wiping his face with the towel again. Peter lets out a breath, feeling his lungs and nerves start to deflate. 

 

Bucky walks with him back to the kitchen and Peter finds its pretty easy to avoid uncomfortable silence when he gets started talking about Bucky's arm. By the time they step onto linoleum tiles and Bucky's opening up the highest cupboard, Peter's practically gushing about how cool the arm is. It's one Shuri and Tony made together (though Peter's pretty sure Shuri has a small army worth of them back in Wakanda) and it's infinitely better than the original. Peter thinks it's probably one of the most amazing things ever. 

 

Bucky laughs, though really it's just a soft chuckle and a kind of scoff, but Peter sees it and _beams_. The soldier hands him the bag of wonderful goodness and Peter takes it eagerly, popping a marshmallow in his mouth almost immediately. He hums in content when the fluffy sugar hits his tongue and eats the sweet quickly, smiling up at Bucky and thanking him profusely. 

 

"No problem," Bucky replies, an easy smile on his face that Peter's not sure he's ever seen before. At least not often. Peter looks down at the marshmallows, then back at Bucky, and holds up the bag to him. 

 

"Want some?" He offers. Marshmallows are delicious and deserve to be shared; that's Peter's philosophy. Bucky doesn't really respond other than a very slight shrug, but he does take one puff from the bag. The younger considers it a victory. 

 

"Do you know when the meeting will be over?" He asks, a little wide eyed as he makes his way to the stools. It's kind of a struggle getting up, because he has to set the bag down and then grab onto the back of the chair, step on the foot bar and haul himself up, but he makes it up onto the cushion and looks back at the super soldier. Bucky smirks at his antics and leans on the counter across from the boy. 

 

" 'm not sure. Fury likes to yap." Bucky cracks, and Peter giggles. There's not a whole lot of people who would even dare to make a comment like that (ok, Fury kinda scares Peter. He'll admit it) but Bucky makes it funny. 

 

Huh. Bucky is. Funny.

 

Peter smiles and swings his legs absently as he munches on the marshmallows, sharing them with Bucky in a comfortable silence. The younger decides that Bucky isn't nearly as bad or scary as anyone made him out to be. Peter likes him. 

 

***   
  


Peter talks to Bucky more after that. It’s a great help, because he was barely even beginning his purgatory of “smallness” and had already been running out of things to do, so having a brooding super soldier to talk to makes things a lot more interesting. 

 

When Peter can’t seem to keep his mind focused enough to just sit and do a lego set or watch some TV (Bruce says it’s because he’s living in a little kid’s body now, and little kids are hyperactive with microscopic attention spans), he’ll wander around until he finds Bucky. At the gym, he’ll try to imitate what the soldier is doing (and fail miserably, because his body is not meant for one-armed pull-ups and 60 push-ups in 120 seconds); in the kitchen, he’ll share marshmallows; just lounging around the compound, he’ll talk and Bucky will listen to pretty much everything he can think of to say, without even getting bored or annoyed.

 

Sam tells Peter he’s lucky, because more often than not, Bucky actually speaks _back_  to him. As in, conversations. They’re fairly simple and frequently short, but Bucky talks to Peter, and he doesn’t get irritated when the kid hangs around him, and Peter _l_ _oves_  it because Bucky is so cool, and only three days in he feels comfortable enough to do what he’s about to do. 

 

Peter carries a box in his arms. It’s made of cardboard that’s falling apart and been taped back together more than once, and he’s been filling it up since early in the morning. So early that he’d caught Steve in the kitchen before his why-are-you-even-awake-o'clock in the morning run and asked the man to help add to Peter’s collection. 

 

Tony had been the biggest asset, with a massive abundance of supplies. He’d been questioning, but Peter pleaded with his eyebrows raised like Wanda told him to and it took Tony all of three seconds to cave and help Peter fill up his box. 

 

With the cardboard container almost full of little pieces, Peter strolls cautiously up to where Bucky is leaning against the island counter in the kitchen. He obviously knows Peter’s there, but he doesn’t acknowledge him, watching from afar what’s playing on the television. Peter steps up to him carefully, standing at Bucky’s left and setting his box on the counter, next to where the soldier’s arms are folded on the marble surface.

 

When Bucky still doesn’t make to interact with him, Peter picks up a magnet. 

 

It’s one of the ones Steve had helped him get from high up on the fridge door, a plain yellow square. He pulls it out of the box slowly, examines it absentmindedly, and picks out a place on the metal arm next to him. 

 

He sticks the magnet in the dead center of Bucky’s forearm. It stays put and Peter smiles triumphantly to himself. Bucky watches the action from the corner of his eye, but otherwise, he doesn’t move except to take a sip of water from a glass on his other side.

 

Peter counts this as a win, and picks up another magnet. This one looks like Steve’s shield and Peter smiles as he sticks it under Bucky’s wrist. The third magnet is a red and gold diamond shape with a blue circle in the middle, and Peter’s pretty sure it’s supposed to represent an Iron Man suit, so he lets it connect itself next the the shield. 

 

He manages to get five magnets on Bucky’s arm before the soldier blatantly watches him, head turned, yet remaining silent. He works up to twenty seven, magnets of all shapes and sizes littering Bucky’s arm, before he runs out of room. When he realizes he’s out of space, he finally looks up to see the soldier eyeing him with a little smirk. 

 

Peter beams at him, proud of his work. Bucky rolls his eyes. 

 

“You’re a little punk, you know that?” He says. Peter giggles, all pleased with himself. He thinks twenty seven is pretty impressive, even if Bucky’s arm is huge. He’s about to say so, when suddenly Bucky’s right hand swipes all the magnets off his arm in one fluid motion, raining them down on the kitchen tiles, and turns to Peter. 

 

The small boy isn’t fast enough to avoid the arms that come for him. He yelps, bursting into a fit of giggles and protests and surprised squeaks when he’s suddenly lifted from the floor. Bucky’s flesh arm is around his chest, just under his arms, and then the metal one swoops down under his legs, bringing them up and letting go with the other, swinging Peter’s legs over him so the younger’s knees are bent over Bucky’s shoulder, held down by his metal arm, Peter’s back upside down against Bucky’s chest. 

 

It happens so fast that Peter can’t do anything about it until he’s trapped, shirt falling up (down?), and Bucky’s hand is attacking his ribs. He nearly shrieks, kicking his legs out to no avail, frantically trying to push away the offending hand but nothing is working at all. Peter erupts into laughter, wiggling fruitlessly, struggling to get away from the tickling, but he doesn’t get any results. Bucky is relentless, and if Peter was any bit less preoccupied he’d notice that the soldier is laughing, smiling and laughing as he tickles Peter. 

 

It’s horrible and awful and Peter can’t stop laughing. His stomach hurts and his whole body struggles to get away, but Bucky doesn’t let up, not even when there are tears in Peter’s eyes and his face is going pink, until Peter pleads through his giggles that he can’t breathe. It’s only then that Bucky slows to a stop, and lets Peter catch his breath. 

 

“Evil, evil, traitor, you’re the worst, the worst,” The small boy pants, clutching at his stomach, breathing heavy. His mouth hurts from smiling. Bucky chuckles, maneuvering around the magnets that litter the floor and walking to the nearby couches. 

 

“You asked for it, Pete.” The soldier smirks, flesh arm coming around behind Peter’s back, metal hand taking hold of one of Peter’s hands. He helps Peter slide off his shoulder and drop ungracefully onto the couch cushions, only to immediately try to punch Bucky in the side. He misses, and Bucky laughs at him, and Peter’s not sure if he’s ever laughed that hard. If he’s ever in his life been tickled so relentlessly. 

 

“The worst,” Peter tries to scowl, but it doesn’t really work, since he’s still giggling. He wraps his arms around himself protectively and sticks his tongue out at Bucky, who returns the gesture. They laugh at themselves, and Peter hops off the couch to follow the soldier back to the kitchen. 

 

Neither of them notice Natasha, and then Steve, and then a few moments later Tony, having been standing in the darkened hallway outside the kitchen. Natasha had watched with a knowing grin (that’s her superpower, Peter thinks. Knowing everyone better than they know themselves) while Steve and Tony wore expressions somewhere between surprised, fond, and amused. Tony turns back to the hallway as the ex-assassin and his spider protégé make their way back into the kitchen. Steve follows him with a smirk. 

 

“See? Not bad.” He says, nudging Tony’s shoulder. Tony rolls his eyes and scoffs, brushing off the comment. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. But if he tries to steal my spiderling I’m putting on the Iron Man suit.” 

 

Steve just laughs. A ways behind them, Peter asks Bucky if he can grab the marshmallows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've given up on chapter length being the same-ish. Whatever happens, happens


	6. Peter Parker's Art of Passing Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter falls asleep a lot and suddenly the avengers are parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regular updating schedule? Never heard of one. Also, casual reminder that chapters are not posted in chronological order, so this can really be whenever <3
> 
> Side note: I maintain that this au is like,, post-fix-it for everything up through infinity war, but it’s obviously not compliant with Endgame and I’m honestly pretending that movie doesn’t exist ‘cause it makes me Sad. However if you haven’t seen it I still cannot recommend it enough!! 
> 
> This chapter is longer and literally just straight blankets and fluff, so. Hope you like it !

Bruce did say he’d get tired and sleep more.

 

But Peter never thought he’d pass out in the middle of a  _meeting_.

 

Granted, it’s well past eleven o’clock at night and they’ve been sitting, talking, for what feels like forever. Peter’s sitting between Mr. Stark and Natasha, swinging his sock-clad feet where they’re so far from touching the ground. Steve talked for a long time, and then Mr. Stark talked, and then there was a video conference with T’Challa and he went on forever, and Peter felt himself starting to doze off half an hour ago.

 

He pulls the soft blanket that’s draped over his shoulders a little tighter and tries to sit up straight.

 

“Doing alright, Peter?” Natasha whispers. She’s leaning over, lowering herself to be level with him. He offers her a smile and nods. Peter used to think Ms. Romanoff was terrifying, but she’s actually super nice. Still scary, but nice and funny and  _super_  cool. Kind of like Bucky.

 

She grins in return and turns back to the head of the long table they’re seated at. Vision says a bunch of numbers, statistics for something that apparently Peter isn’t paying attention to anymore, so he tries to focus back in on what Mr. Fury is saying about their latest S.H.I.E.L.D. mission.

 

That doesn’t work out so well, because Peter’s eyes feel very heavy and kind of sting, and he stares at a spot on the marble table until he suddenly realizes that his eyes are closed and snaps them back open. He misses the smirks that both Natasha and Sam regard him with.

 

Peter sighs quietly and leans back in his chair, pulling his knees up to his chest and enveloping himself in the blanket. Man, he’s tired. It’s been such a long day, and he barely registers Fury saying something about Clint getting back from a trip (a mission or returning to his family, Peter doesn’t know) the next day before he’s nodding off again.

  
This time, Peter doesn’t snap himself awake. His eyelashes kiss his slightly pudgy cheeks and his head lolls off to the side, body going lax. The meeting drones on for another half hour before the Avengers finally call it a night. It’s only after the video conferences are ended and people are getting out of their chairs, ready to head to bed, when attention falls on the sleeping boy.

 

Tony sighs, putting a hand on Peter’s shoulder, ready to wake him as gently as possible when Natasha covers his wrist with her palm.

 

“Let him sleep,” she offers, a soft grin on her face. Tony looks between the two of them, then lets his shoulders sag in defeat. Fine, fine. He’s noticed himself getting more and more attached to Peter, wondering where the kid is and what he’s up to constantly throughout the day (and not in a purely curious sense, but rather a ‘parental concern’ variety that makes him nervous) and the notion has had him trying to actively avoid becoming even more so.

 

He’s well aware that taking the kid to bed is the exact opposite of avoiding attachment, but with Natasha’s subtle prompt and his predisposition, looking down at the small boy, fast asleep, he can’t seem to care.

 

“Alright, come on, Pete,” Tony says softly, reaching down. He pulls the chair out a little and slips his hands carefully under Peter’s armpits, lifting up slowly. The boy seems to instinctively, mostly (if not entirely) still asleep reach out and wrap his arms around Tony’s neck. The billionaire hoists him up and snakes his arms around and under the kid, holding him up, keeping the blanket around him. Peter lets his legs hang loose around Tony’s waist and tucks his face into the crook of the man’s neck, breathing softly, nuzzling into the warmth of another body.

 

“We’re gonna have to call Fury again tomorrow, I want to know what’s up with those arms dealers he mentioned,” Tony says offhandedly, scooting Peter’s chair back in with his foot. Steve hums in agreement, seeming distracted by the very, very familial scene before him. Sam snorts.

 

“Yeah, alright, more work in the morning. Got it. Why don’t you just tuck in your kid and get some sleep for once, huh?” The man chides playfully, clapping Steve on the shoulder. Bruce disguises a huff of laughter as a yawn. There isn’t a person (human or otherwise) in the compound who doesn’t know about Tony’s painfully irregular, virtually nonexistent sleeping patterns. Nor is there a person who doesn’t look at Iron Man and the childlike Spider-Man and see something domiciliary.

 

Tony rolls his eyes as he makes his way out of the room. Bucky holds the door open for him and Tony acknowledges the gesture with a nod, scoffing back as Sam follows him out.

 

‘Not my kid,’ he thinks, but only realizes he doesn’t say it aloud when he’s standing in the hall outside of Peter’s room. He shifts the boy’s weight to one arm so he can sneak a hand around the doorknob, stepping slowly into the room.

 

The lights are off and he leaves them as such, simply using the hall light to guide his way to Peter’s bed. He uses his same free hand to lift the comforter out of the way, creating a spot for him to ever so gently lay the small boy onto the mattress. He has to carefully pry Peter’s arms from around his neck and he very pointedly annoys the satisfaction in the back of his mind.

 

‘Not my kid.’ He reminds himself.

 

It turns out to be a pretty pointless attempt when he fixes the blankets around the boy, because looking down at the familiar but different ( _younger_ ) little face of the wide-eyed teenager he plucked out of Queens, his hand moves on its own to ruffle the mess of chestnut hair.

 

“Goodnight, Pete,” Tony says softly, grinning a little when he gets a quiet hum in return.

 

He closes the door silently and tells Friday to let him know if Peter needs anything, and thinks maybe he’ll go to bed for real that night.

 

***

 

With enough prompting and gentle ministrations, anyone can get Peter to or from bed.

 

Steve, however, seems to be (somehow both surprisingly and not so surprisingly) the best at it.

 

Since no one else other than Bucky has enhanced human senses, often times the other Avengers can’t even hear what soft words Steve whispers to Peter, carefully rubbing his back and petting his hair, managing to coerce the boy into latching onto him.

 

They small child wraps his arms around Steve’s neck, clings on with all the energy his exhausted body can manage, and Steve scoops him up, carrying him wherever he might need to go.

 

The man has lifted him out of bed, cradling him like an actual baby in his arms (Peter too tired to care at all) multiple times before, and sometimes he’ll offer piggyback rides to get the sleepy boy up and moving a little more.

 

(If Sam caught Steve swaying slightly, doing a funny little dance to some 40’s song with Peter on his back, bouncing until the kid giggled and playfully swatted at Cap’s shoulders with a quiet “’m awake, ‘m awake-!”, he’s not telling anyone.)

 

Peter’s sleepiness-induced pliancy has gotten him used to, comfortable with, and even a little reliant on the manhandling. Just a bit. When his legs turn to jello and he’s barely able to keep his eyes open, let alone stand up straight, it’s nice to have someone as compassionate as Steve to lean on (literally). Even nicer when he doesn’t have to lean at all, just hold loosely to the man’s shirt and let himself be carried wherever he needs to go.

 

Steve’s really good at tucking in the blankets, too. Offering Peter warm milk and giving him a soft back rub when he’s exhausted and anxious and keyed up at the same time.

 

They don’t talk about it, because if Peter thinks on it too much he’ll burn with embarrassment and a bit of loneliness (it makes him miss Aunt May, alright?) over how much he feels like a dependent, childish…  _child_.

 

And it’s not necessarily a secret, per se, because everyone knows that Steve’s often the one to wake Peter up for a meeting or bring him to bed when he passes out on the couch. It just sort of their— thing.

 

Like with Tony in the labs or Bucky watching old movies and eating marshmallows. Like Clint and Natasha when they’d train together, like irregularly occurring philosophical discussions with Sam. Like Lego time with Ned and folding laundry with May on Tuesdays.

 

Steve (and Peter can’t believe his dwindling pride allows him to use this phrase)  _takes care_  of him when he’s tired.

 

They won’t admit it, but it kind of turns into a habit. Many mornings, Peter's woken by Steve (when there’s something to do or a hot breakfast meant to feed the entire team). And most nights, the boy waits for Cap to come and tell him goodnight, speaking quietly about the day and tomorrow and making sure all the blankets are right, the soldier running his hand through Peter’s hair.

 

So when Tony and Steve and Bucky are all called away for “Avenger business” (a meeting? A mission? Why does nobody tell Peter anything. He’s not  _actually_  eight, he hopes they know) Peter is definitely not just waiting for Steve to get back and tell him goodnight.

 

(Really, he’s not, he’s waiting for the three of them equally, wanting to see them before he goes to sleep. He’s not  _not_  waiting for Cap, though.)

 

Peter sits on the couch and messes with a rubix cube, Sam and Natasha on either side of him, some news channel on the TV. He’s all wrapped up in blankets and there’s a cup of hot, sweet tea sitting on the coffee table in front of him, still half full.

 

It’s late.

 

It’s really late, and Peter’s eyelids are heavy, and it kind of burns just to have them open. But he wants to wait for the others to return (and maybe he’s waiting for Steve, too, like he’s pavlov’d himself into  ~~needing~~  wanting to see the man before bed).

 

It really is so late, though.

 

Peter doesn’t know when he passes out.

 

Sam thinks it must be around midnight when the kid finally taps, his head dropping to the side and his body leaning over until he hits Sam’s shoulder. His head rests against the man’s side and his arms fall down, legs getting untangled and flopping into an almost definitely uncomfortable position.

 

Sam’s got his arm over the back of the couch so there’s nothing really bracing the boy and he keeps sliding down, and neither Sam nor Natasha really think much of it when the Falcon drops a pillow over his legs and gently guides Peter down to lay his head on the man’s lap. They don’t think much of it when Natasha carefully adjusts the kid’s legs so that they rest across her thighs.

 

What? He’s warm and tired and it’s completely harmless.

 

They aren’t like Tony or Steve or Bucky, ok. There aren’t any deeply ingrained parental instincts waiting to burst out of them. The kid isn’t igniting anything domestic or whatever. It’s just… nice. This is nice.

 

They flip channels because they want to be here when their teammates return, too, until they find an interesting program about a murder mystery, already halfway over.

 

The show is in it’s epilogue when three tired Avengers slug their way into the kitchen. Steve and Bucky both go straight for the fridge, Tony dropping his jacket on a bar stool. He eyes the trio on the couch with a raised brow.

 

“Wanted to wait until you got back. Didn’t really last too long,” Sam says quietly, gesturing to Peter. Tony huffs and turns his fond smile away before Natasha can give him that knowing look of her’s.

 

Ok. He likes (read: wants) kids. And he likes Peter. And he doesn’t despise having small, child-Peter around. What can he say, the kid is endearing and sharp and downright funny. He’s a joy to be around, and he’s. Shit. He’s cute, ok? He’s a good kid and he fills the compound up with something sweetly homey, if unfamiliar for most of the residents.

 

Tony runs his hand through his hair, filling up a glass of water while the super soldiers share a box of strawberries, burning quickly through it. He turns back to the couch a moment later and strolls up.

 

“Peter? Hey, Pete,” he prompts, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezing a bit through the blanket. Peter gives a soft sigh and a quiet little childish groan, but manages to open his eyes. He smiles when he sees Tony squatting down in front of him and the sight puts a lot of wholesome things in the inventor’s heart.

 

“Hi Mr. Stark. How’d it go?” He asks. Tony grins back at him.

  
“Good, kid. It went good. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow, but you should go to bed now,” he says. Peter nods and tries to sit himself up, Sam and Natasha helping him with righting himself. Steve somehow meanders over, and the way Peter looks at him with that barely-awake, goofy grin makes Tony really want to call Pepper for some reason.

 

“Need a lift?” Steve jokes quietly, and Peter ignores the smirks of everyone around him in favor of a sleepy giggle and simply reaching his arms out.

 

It’s…  _painfully_  sweet and Tony won’t say adorable because he’s just not like that, but he has to back away and fetch his water, occupy himself, or he doesn’t know what kind of embarrassing thing he might say or do.

 

Steve just smiles and steps over, pulling Peter easily into his arms, blankets and all. The kid wraps himself around the man and sighs, so obviously melting into the warmth of another body.    
  


Cap disappears down the hallway, Peter wrapped up, and Tony is actually backhanded by the realization that that was really, very, incredibly domestic; pally, as if Peter is actually Steve’s kid and— shit, Tony kind of needs a drink now.

 

Half of his brain tries to start that mantra of ‘not actually the Avengers’ adopted child’ and the other half of his brain squashes down the former with a mental baseball bat. Fuck it. He lets himself feel the possessive, familial warmth. Just tonight.

 

***

 

Whatever fragile lingerings of distance Tony had hoped to keep between himself and Peter, the last of his will to maintain  _some_  kind of boundary, died around three in the morning one night.

 

He’d been laying on the couch in the living room for he-doesn’t-care-how-long, tablet on his chest, writing and rewriting programs, trying to work out the last kinks he couldn’t seem to break through.

 

A small presence and smaller voice from a short ways away startles him from the depths of his thinking.

 

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks. It’s almost completely dark in the largest communal living room, save for one dim lamp on the far side, but Tony can easily make out the frankly  _tiny_  child standing in the entree way.

 

Peter looks tired. There are little bags under his big eyes that don’t look right on such a young, pudgy face. He’s wrapped up in a fluffy blanket and his unruly hair is a sleep-favored mess, and he’s shifting slightly from foot to foot.

 

“Pete? What are you doing awake, kid? Friday, what time is it?” Tony asks, propping himself up on his elbows.

 

“It’s three o’ four a.m.” The AI says quietly. Tony frowns.

 

“You should be in bed,” he says, looking at Peter. The boy stares at the floor.

 

“Couldn’t sleep. Friday said you were still awake, so I thought I’d, I don’t know. Come see you?” He offers. Tony sighs. This isn’t unusual. There isn’t a person in the compound, save Vision, maybe, who doesn’t have nightmares. The inventor wishes Peter was an exception, but the kid’s been through so much, it’s a miracle he manages to sleep at all these days. Tony certainly doesn’t get a lot himself. He softens and tips his chin up, gesturing for Peter to come over.

 

The boy moves slowly, like he’s still nervous of being a bother. So when he’s close enough, Tony reaches out and fixes part of the blanket that had fallen off the kid’s shoulder.

 

“Wanna talk about it?” He asks.

 

“Not really.” Peter shrugs. Fair enough, Tony thinks. There’s only so much talking you can do before it becomes repetitive. Peter shifts on his feet again, looking anywhere but Tony, and the man sighs, putting down his tablet.

 

He knows how Peter is. He also knows how he himself is, and he’s pretty sure the kid asked Friday how long Tony’s been up before he even came to the living room. The man is well aware that Peter’s not going to ask, but he knows what the kid needs (because he makes a point of getting it from Steve), so he moves without the invitation.

 

Tony does something Maria rarely got the chance to. Something Howard never did, something he’s pretty sure Peter used to get from May but probably hasn’t experienced since becoming a teenager and deciding that he has to solve all his problems on his own.

 

“Come ‘ere,” Tony whispers, reaching forward, slinging his arms around Peter and pulling the boy in. The kid lets him, un-tucks one of his arms to help the process of being tugged up onto the couch and on top of Tony. He lays on his stomach, his head on the inventor’s chest, as the man drags another blanket off the back of the couch and drapes it over the both of them.

 

“Fri, turn the light down,” Tony says quietly, wrapping his arms around Peter. The lone lamp dims to almost off, but still glowing. He knows the boy can hear his heart beating so he settles his breathing, hoping for a soothingly stable rhythm to come out. Peter doesn’t even say anything— just snuggles in closer and takes a deep breath, probably smelling an odd but comfortingly well-known combination of shop oil and cologne.

 

Tony holds him a little tighter and doesn’t think twice about pressing a gentle kiss to the top of the boy’s head.

 

“Try to get some rest, ok?” He asks. Peter hums and he can feel it in his chest.

 

“You too,” comes the soft reply.

 

Tony smiles a bit and rests his head on the pillow behind him. Peter’s small and warm and familiar (and real and solid and  _alive_ , his brain adds), and Tony thinks he might actually get some sleep tonight after all.

 

Later on, there’s a picture of Anthony Stark passed out on the couch, morning light streaming in on him and the pint-sized Peter Parker, their hair messy and legs tangled with some strewn out blankets falling off them. The photograph is stuck up on the fridge with a red and gold magnet. James Rhodes claims he knows nothing about how that happened, but there isn’t a person within the state of New York who believes him.

 

Tony smiles at the picture, even if Peter’s gone beat red and grumbling into his pancakes beside him.

 

_Fuck it_ , he thinks.  _It's a good picture_.


	7. Peter Goes Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is not supposed to go outside alone. Peter goes outside alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got angsty,,, I’m sorr y,,, but I promise it’s all resolved and we’re back to fluff and snuggles in the end!!
> 
> Also, this is about 4k bc I have no control. 
> 
> Thanks again for all the love + support, you're all gems and babes!!! Hope you like it :D

Peter already wasn’t having a good day.

 

He woke up at 5:00am to a nightmare about being crushed under literal tons of cement and couldn’t get back to sleep, having to fight off tears for the next half hour and convince Friday that, 'no, it’s ok Ms. Friday, please, you don’t need to tell Mr. Stark, I’m ok’, because he imagined that the man had probably just gotten to bed.

 

Then all the way from his foot to his knee fell asleep at breakfast, and when he tried to get up and put his plate in the dishwasher, he’d collapsed with the sudden wave of pins and needles and Sam had to catch him before he and his dishes could hit the ground. Which. Painfully embarrassing, considering Peter was decidedly  _not_  in the mood to laugh off his own foolery.

 

His head and eyes hurt from the lack of sleep but he was too keyed up from his nightmare to relax enough for a nap. And to top it off,  _everyone_  was busy all day, so there was no one to bring Peter outside.

 

Because it’s not as if he’s really a teenager perfectly capable of taking his own ass onto the lawn.

 

Ultraviolet light and pollen are two of the things on the Absolutely Not list (along with coffee, Peter remembers grimly). So whenever he wants to go outside, Peter has to have an adult go with him. To make sure that he only stays out for thirty minutes or less; to make sure that he’s covered in long pants and long sleeves and a hat; to make sure that he puts on enough sunscreen and wears a medical mask over his nose and mouth; to make sure he stays only in the parts of the property that Mr. Stark and Friday cleared for distance from the Bad Pollen.

 

It’s an ordeal. Peter has to request to go outside. Then an adult who isn’t busy will check the wind and weather to make sure they’re in the clear for pollen concentration in the area. The boy has to put on all the layers and protection, a timer is set, and  _only_  then is he allowed out.

 

And, of course, Dr. Banner has to check him when he comes back inside.

 

Unfortunately, today was already not a good day.

 

Peter was in a sour mood and feeling restless from his emotional roller coaster of a morning, plus the lack of entertainment. Mr. Stark is working in his lab (has been since yesterday, apparently) and is vaguely annoyed by all the times Peter buzzed through the doors to bother him over the last forty-eight hours. Dr. Banner is with him. Thor is still gone. Steve, Bucky, Sam and Natasha are going through a new training regime and putting together a specialized battle tactic for the grounded members of the team, Clint is MIA, and even Wanda and Vision have left the compound.

 

Everyone else who would come and go throughout the facility are either busy or out.

 

Peter is  _bored_  and a little bit upset, because every time he’s tried to tell Mr. Stark that he’s feeling unstable and might do something drastic, Tony has brushed him off with a ‘not now, Pete, we’re really busy in here’.

 

Peter tried about twenty minutes ago to enter the biggest gym and ask for something to do, someone to  _talk to_ , even, but he’d been very quickly dismissed by a sharp ‘later, Peter’ from Steve.

 

So he sits, wallowing in discontent and unwarranted but relentless emotional unrest. He’s in the communal living room, the one with the windows that cover the entire walls.

 

It’s bright out, spotted with Toy-Story-esque clouds and dazzling blue sky. The sunshine looks so  _warm_  and  _inviting_ , a gentle breeze blowing through. Peter feels a pang in his stomach when he realizes he can’t hear the leaves rustling; something he could’ve done easily, even inside and one hundred feet away, had he his spider powers.

 

_God_ , it looks nice out.

 

Peter makes a quick, brash decision and gets up to retrieve the sunscreen.

 

He doesn’t change out of his t-shirt or shorts (because it’s  _hot_  out, goddamnit), but he does collect his baseball cap and medical mask.

 

The moment he slips out into the warm sun, he feels better.

 

Soft light wraps him up and the breeze is perfectly balanced between warm and cool, entirely pleasant. Even though the mask it smells so much nicer. So much more fresh.

 

Peter finds himself skipping out into the yard, doing cartwheels and somersaults around the lawn. He rolls around and flops onto his back in the grass, giggling at himself. He tries to do a handstand and walk on his hands, but he only makes it a few feet before falling over in a fit of laughter.

 

Eventually he ventures out into the woods, chasing butterflies and imitating bird calls through the mask. He jumps off stumps and fallen trees, perching on rocks and even tries to swing off of one branch, but it breaks under his weight and he falls onto the forest floor. A broken stick catches his side and scratches him through his shirt, and he scrapes his knee when he accidentally runs into a tree, but none of that bothers him.

 

Who knew clumsily frolicking through the woods would be so therapeutic?

 

After a while, Peter finds a huge tree, one that he’s sure even his teen self couldn’t wrap his arms around entirely, and he hauls himself up into it. He climbs higher and higher until the branches start getting thin and he looks down, suddenly realizing he doesn’t have webs or spider powers, and shakily makes his way back to the ground.

 

Peter doesn’t know how much time passes. Maybe a little under an hour? Can’t be more than sixty minutes. He realizes he doesn’t exactly know where he is, but he can still hear the occasional echoing of heavy things dropping and gunfire going off in the training arena, and he follows that sound back to the compound. He takes his time, enjoying touching the trees and leaves of things he knows won’t poison him, turning his return into a leisurely stroll.

 

It’s only when he gets close enough to the compound to see adults gathered in the living room (though the glare of the sun on the windows and the lawn reflecting make it a little difficult to tell who’s who and where) that he realizes he’s going to have to sneak back in if he wants to avoid trouble.

 

With a deep breath, Peter scurries his way around the building to one of the back doors. Friday lets him in without a word, and he slinks back inside, depositing his hat and medical mask on a random side table, kicking off his shoes and running fingers through his hair. He hopes they didn’t notice him missing.

 

***

 

It’s a misplaced hope.

 

Tony finally finished his upgrade, and now Natasha’s tasers won’t run out of power in the middle of a fight, and the magnets on Steve’s shield can attract the oversized frisbee back to his arm guard at his command from over two hundred feet away. Bruce got the kinks worked out of… whatever the hell was in that vile, and they both wiped sweaty brows on their sleeves, heading to the kitchen for some snacks and water.

 

It’s well past five in the evening when they make it upstairs, where Steve, Bucky, Sam and Natasha are all relaxing together in the communal living room.

 

“Calm down, you hooligans, or we’ll have to shut this party down,” Tony quips sarcastically, earning him a groan from Steve and a snicker from Nat. Turning around with a large glass of water in hand, Tony noticed Bucky sitting with an ice pack to his nose.

 

“What happened to you?” He asks with a smirk. Bucky rolls his eyes.

 

“She kicked me in the face.” He says simply. Natasha might be grinning, just a little, but Tony can’t tell for sure.

 

He sits down with them, just resting, talking to Sam about how their new regime went when he suddenly realizes that there’s one special pint-sized person missing.

 

“You guys seen Peter recently?” He asks. Tony knows he’s been brushing the kid off lately. He’s felt kind of bad about it, but he really needed to get his lab work done.

 

A chorus of head shakes and curious, intrigued ‘nope’s goes around the room. Tony narrows his eyes.

 

“Fri, where’s Peter?”

 

“Mr. Parker is currently outside.” Tony quirks an eyebrow.

 

“Who’s with him?” There’s a beat of silence.

 

“It appears Mr. Parker is unaccompanied.”

 

Tony feels a rush of, what, adrenaline? If adrenaline was a little less aggressive. Bruce sits up straighter and looks at Tony with worried eyebrows.

 

Fucking hell. Of course. Of course he’s outside without supervision. Of course he goes and does things that endanger his health, breaks rules meant to keep him safe, because he's  _Peter._  Damnit.

 

“Friday, where is he exactly?” Steve prompts, standing up as Tony does.

 

“Peter is now in the west hall. Should I alert him that you request his presence?” Friday offers. Tony grumbles, feeling himself deflate just a little bit at the realization that the boy is already back inside. Maybe he wasn’t even outside, really. Maybe he just popped out for a few seconds for, Tony doesn’t know, to grab a cool leaf? Empty something out? It doesn't matter. Tony needs to know for sure so he knows if he has to scold the kid.

 

Which. Wow. That's... responsible and adult-like. Not something he was expecting.

 

“Yeah, Fri. Tell him to get in here. How long was he outside?” Tony requests. He’s grumbling to himself, he knows he is.

 

“He has been made aware of your call. Mr. Parker was outside for approximately four hours, thirteen minutes, and twenty-nine seconds.”

 

Tony thinks he probably stops breathing.

 

Four hours? Hold on.  _Four fucking hours?_

 

He’s going to lose his shit. Steve doesn’t look any better, jaw clenching on the other side of the living room. Natasha gets up and grabs Bruce by the sleeve, dragging her with him. He doesn’t ask why or where they’re going. Sam and Bucky look like they aren’t sure if they want to be part of the lecture, leave, or endure the probably awkwardness of witnessing Tony flip the coffee table.

 

A very,  _painfully_  small presence entering the living room from the hall to the right alerts Tony to Peter’s arrival.

 

Tony must really have been cooped up in his lap because  _shit_ , has he always been that little? He’s got one of his sock-clad feet wrapped around the bottom of his other calf, a nervous sway to the subconsciously defensive pose. He keeps looking quickly between the adults in the room and the floor in front of him. There’s dirt smudges on his clothes and, shit, his knee is red and dirty and almost definitely scraped. He’s only wearing a t-shirt and shorts. When he finally manages to make eye contact with Tony for more than half a second, the older man snaps.

 

***

 

“Mr. Stark, um, I can explain? I-” Peter doesn’t even get to start before Tony’s interrupting.

 

“Explain?! What the hell, Peter?! What were you thinking?!”

 

Peter groans, because that wave of moodiness and his perpetual annoyance at the way all the Avengers treat him like a literal child both hit him suddenly and forcefully.

 

“I just wanted to go out and everyone was busy,” He tries.

 

“So you went out anyways? You didn’t even cover up, Peter, and you were out for four hours?! Four fucking hours, Pete?! Are you- what- do you have any idea what could’ve happened to you?!” Tony’s getting flustered and Peter cringes internally at the man cussing. He tries to shut him down, though admittedly, not in the most pacifying of ways.

 

“Oh my god, it’s not like I was doing anything even remotely dangerous, Mr. Stark, I was just  _outside_. Being outside won’t hurt me!” Tony looks like he’s about to rip out his own hair at that. Peter thinks the fact that he’s two feet shorter, roughly a hundred pounds lighter, and significantly squeakier than the other probably isn’t helping his case.

 

“That’s the point, kid, it damn well could. You know it could, you know you’re not supposed to go out like that, for that long, without someone else with you! I can’t believe you’d be so irresponsible,” the older man nearly shouts. Peter feels his ears go hot and he knows his cheeks are turning red. Mr. Stark is really upset now, and it's making Peter more upset, too. He wills his eyes not to sting.

 

“ _I just went outside!_  I can’t just be cooped up in here all the time! Maybe if you would listen to me when I try to explain that-”

 

“ _Listen_  to you?! I was  _working_ , Peter, that’s what I  _do_ , that’s what  _adults do_ — you couldn’t wait a few more hours? One more fucking day for someone to give you attention? Do you have any idea how dangerous your little stunt was, and for what? So you could scrape your knees and come back in here acting like you didn’t put yourself at risk? Yeah, Pete, that’s  _real_  mature. Great job with that one, kid.” Tony pauses to run his hands through his hair. Peter thinks he’s probably shaking. Nope, scratch that. He’s definitely shaking. Why does he feel so emotional about this? Why is  _Tony_ so emotional about this?

 

He bites his lip and clenches his fists so tight his knuckles start turning lighter.

 

“Peter, that was a seriously dangerous decision. We have these rules set up to help keep you safe. We-” Steve starts, his voice calm and a little gentle and Tony cuts him off.

 

“Save it, Steve, he’s not actually a fetus, ok. He can take a little yelling. And he should.” He starts, turning back to Peter. “Go ahead, Pete. Try to explain just how you didn’t do anything wrong. Because the way I see it, you went out without any help for nine times as long as what’s safe, without checking to see if the yard was even in the clear, and without long clothes. Go on, kid. Tell me how that’s ok.”

 

Peter… can’t. He knows he can’t. He knows there’s no way to win this argument but he’s so heated right now, he’s so mad at Tony and he wants to yell back with some revolutionary sentence that will give him the last word but he’s got nothing— and that pisses him off even more. Tony ignored him and he had a shit day and now Mr. Stark is completely right and Peter feels so angry that he almost doesn’t register another emotion just as strong.

 

It hits him suddenly.

 

The realization that he feels  _guilty_. He feels guilty for breaking the rules, yeah, and for making them worry, but he’s crushed without warning when he realizes that he’s disappointed Mr. Stark.  _Again_. He feels like a fifteen year old kid who just narrowly saved (after nearly collapsing) a ferry all over again.

 

Fuck.

 

Peter doesn’t have a way to respond to that, and he can feel tears prickling in the corners of his eyes with how overwhelmed he is. Every second that passes in the heavy, heavy silence kills his anger more and more and makes him feel increasingly shitty. He stares at the ground and doesn’t say anything.

 

“Well?” Tony prompts. He sounds mad, furious, still, but cooled down a little as Peter isn’t shouting back at him anymore.

 

After letting the silence hang and holding off the tears as long as he can, Peter takes a shaky breath.

 

“I’m sorry.”

  
  
He curses in the most creative ways he can (in his head) that his voice betrays him— broken and quiet, childishly high pitched and soft.

 

He bites the inside of his lip and evacuates the living room before Tony can rub it in even more that he’s really nothing but a stupid kid.

 

Peter makes it to his room in record time and only just gets the door closed before he’s sinking down against it. The tears slip out and his face burns; at the mortifying guilt he feels at disappointing Mr. Stark, at knowing Steve and Bucky and Sam witnessed the whole argument, at realizing he really is a dumb child, at the lingering anger he feels for the whole situation— he doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. He just wipes furiously at his eyes for a few minutes before he gives up on stopping the tears and lets himself cry.

 

He crawls into his bed and suddenly feels very, very tired. He doesn’t remember the sniffles or muffled sobs every quieting, so he can assume he cries himself to sleep.

 

***

 

Peter wakes up to a weight on the side of his bed.

 

He grumbles a little in his drowsiness, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands to wake up his brain. When he blinks himself awake enough to look beside him, he sees Tony sitting on his bed.

 

The man’s looking at him so…  _softly_ , one hand on Peter’s back, gently rubbing as he quietly says Peter’s name, asking if he’s awake.

 

Peter stares at him for a moment, his brain catching up to speed, before he’s crying again.

 

“I-I’m s-sorry, I’m sorry I-I, I didn’t m-mean to m-make you mad, I-” he chokes out, trying to sit up. Tony cuts him off by wrapping his arms around him, pulling Peter’s incredibly small frame against him and holding him tight. Peter clings to his shirt and hides his face in his mentor’s chest without a second thought.

 

“No, no no no, none of that, Pete. I'm not mad at you. I’m sorry, ok? I, I shouldn't have yelled at you, at all, but I definitely shouldn’t have said the things I said. You- you’re alright, kid, I didn’t handle that well. That's on me, that was shitty of me. Peter, come on, you’re alright kiddo. Shh, sh, it’s ok, you’re alright.” Tony hushes. He rubs Peter’s back and has his whole upper half practically wrapped around the boy, hugging him close. He speaks calmly, levelly into Peter’s ear.

 

It takes a few minutes and a continuous mantra of apologies, but eventually Peter stops crying. They don’t break apart.

 

“I’m sorry, kid. You’re right, you are cooped up in here. I can only imagine how aggravating it can be to be away from your friends and your aunt and not being able to do pretty much anything that you actually like. I’m sorry I got so,” he sighs, “loud and angry. I shouldn’t have done that. We should’ve talked about it, I should have just talked about it with you, because obviously we haven’t been very courteous to your situation lately, and obviously today was especially bad.”

 

Peter nods against him and tries to say it’s ok, he understands, it wasn’t Tony’s fault and he’s sorry he fucked up, but the older man shakes his head and shushes him before he can start.

 

“I know. I know you’re sorry, Peter, and I — we?— accept your apology, you’re forgiven, end of story. It’s ok, Pete.” Tony sighs again, and Peter thinks the man kisses his temple but he’s not sure, because, oh, he’s still shaking. "What happened, kid?" 

 

Peter can hear Tony's voice rumbling in the man's chest and it's soothing, so he relaxes against the man and tells him about his nightmare and generally awful morning. Tony holds him through it and breathes a long breath when he's done. 

 

"I'm sorry, kiddo. I  _really_  shouldn't have yelled at you. I'm sorry I wasn't listening to you, that was irresponsible and inconsiderate of me. I promise I'll work on that, but you gotta keep telling me what's going on, Pete. I can't help you if I don't know what's happening. That includes the nightmares, young man." Tony's tone gets minutely playful at the end and it makes Peter huff out something that could've been a laugh, nodding and promising that he'll talk more. 

 

They stay quiet for a while after that. Just hugging.

 

“Do you understand why I got upset, though?” Tony prompts after some time in the silence. “‘Cause we don’t know about this, Peter, your condition, any little thing could’ve gone wrong and you could’ve been hurt.  _Really, seriously_  hurt. And that scared me. That scares all of us. We care about you, kid. A lot. Like, probably way more than what’s healthy. You’re important to us. We’re supposed to be protecting you, and right now, taking care of you. If something bad happens to you because we weren’t careful, I...” he trails off. He doesn’t need to finish; Peter knows.

 

“I know. I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry, I just got really. I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry,” he sniffles. Tony sighs and holds him just a bit tighter.

 

“I know, kid. It’s alright. It’s over and you’re alright,” he pulls back a little, “and you’re not gonna do that again, right?” Peter nods enthusiastically in response, and Tony chuckles a little.

 

“We’ll work something out, ‘kay? I should’ve paid more attention to you. I’ll do better.” Peter can hear him swallow thickly. “I’m still working out the ‘talking to not-adults’ and ‘child-body’ things, but I’ll do better.” Peter giggles at that and he can hear Tony laugh a little more.

 

“Ok. Me too,” he offers. Tony nods.

 

They wait in silence again, but this time it’s softer. Kinder. More comfortable, and if wasn’t for the angle making his spine ache, Peter might’ve fallen asleep in the warm embrace. Eventually, though, Tony pulls back and pushes Peter’s wild hair out of his face.

 

“Did you hurt yourself out there? I saw your knee in the living room, and you haven’t changed clothes,” Tony begins. Peter blushes bright red realizing that he is, in fact, wearing his dirt covered clothing in the nice bed on expensive sheets. He nods his head. Mr. Stark mentioning his knee brings his attention back to it, and his side, and both injuries sting.

 

“My knee ‘n’ my stomach, I think.” He says quietly. Tony gives him a little grin of acknowledgement.

 

“Ok,” he starts, quietly. He gets off the bed slowly, keeping one hand on Peter’s shoulder and instructing him to grab some fresh clothes while Tony grabs some stuff to clean up the scratches.

 

The older man leaves the room briefly, and in that short time, Peter changes into sleep shorts and the softest t-shirt he has. It's one of regular-sized-Peter’s shirts (so it kind of swamps him), part of a small set that Tony got him for his birthday last year. They all have crazy high thread counts and feel heavenly, especially when he’s got enhanced senses and sensitive skin.

 

Mr. Stark comes back soon after, and he has a glass of water with him. Peter sits on his bed and Tony pulls up a chair, setting a bottle of antibacterial serum, a few cotton pads and a couple bandages all on the floor.

 

Peter doesn't really know what to do with himself, sniffling back the last of his little breakdown, so he just lets Mr. Stark gently grab his leg behind the knee and lift it up, propping Peter’s foot on the space of chair between Tony’s legs. He keeps one hand on the back of the boy’s knee and proceeds to clean the scrapes of dirt and dried blood.

 

It stings a little and Peter flinches, instinctively pulling his leg, but Tony holds him still, pulling him carefully back to the original position. He puts an oversized bandaid over the scrapes, smoothing it out. For a moment he doesn't move, then quickly plants a kiss over the bandage.

 

Tony doesn't look up to Peter after releasing his leg, moving to grab another cotton pad and bandage, but the boy preens at the affection nonetheless. Like his subconscious is grateful for further, physical confirmation that Tony really isn't mad at him.

 

Peter holds his shirt up so Tony can patch up the cut on the side of his belly, right where his ribs end. When they're done, Peter occupies himself with the glass of water (a forest green plastic cup, not an actual glass) after Tony tells him he’ll be right back.

 

His mentor returns a minute later, having put away the medical supplies. Peter scoots up his bed, putting down the cup and yawning.

 

His eyelids are heavy. It's been a tiring day.

 

Tony seems to notice this.

 

“Feeling sleepy, Pete?” He asks, his voice a little teasing. Peter just nods, his body moving without his brain to lay down, wiggling under the covers.

 

Tony helps adjust the blankets on top of him, resolving to sit on the edge of the bed. His hand finds Peter’s back, rubbing up and down, occasionally sliding into his hair and running gently through the mess of chestnut brown.

 

“Just please, please try to be a little less reckless, ok?” He requests quietly. Peter giggles sleepily.

 

“Ok,” he says. He’s so tired, oh,  _wow_  is he tired.

 

Tony smiles and keeps giving him the careful backrub, softly playing with the boy’s curls until Peter’s almost entirely asleep. It's only then that he plants a kiss on top of the boy’s head, smoothing his hair down.

 

“Sleep well, Petey-pie,” and then, without hesitation, “I love you.”

 

He lingers for a moment longer, just enough to hear Peter, barely awake, mumble it back.

 

Tony grins, looking at the boy he probably should not be this attached to for a few more seconds.

 

When he heads back into the kitchen, quietly closing Peter’s door behind him, he asks Friday to make sure they have enough ingredients to feed pancakes to a small army. Peter skipped dinner tonight.

 

He’s gonna eat the whole kitchen come morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I'm weak for:  
> 1\. iron dads and their spider sons being emotionally available/expressive/mature  
> 2\. platonic/familial physical intimacy 
> 
> can you tell yet? 
> 
> Thanks for reading lovers <3 Hope you enjoyed !


	8. Peter and the Pillow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter needs a comfort item. Tony “IronDad” Stark provides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second chapter I’m posting tonight (today, depending on where you are), in case you missed that, there’s another one before this!! However that one is Angsty and 4k and this one is back to our regularly scheduled program of self-indulgent fluff!! 
> 
> It’s shorter and a bit messy but I hope this makes up for the Trouble and Feelings in the last chapter (it is called Concentrated Capacity for /Trouble/ and Love though)!!!
> 
> Thanks for reading and hope you like it <3

So. Peter gets nervous. 

 

He’s been shrunk down to the body and at least partially the mental influences of an actual child. He lost his spider powers and is, essentially, trapped in the Avengers compound until further notice. 

 

Reasonably so, he’s antsy sometimes. 

 

It starts when he’s taking naps, curled up on his bed or the couch or against a superhero and hugs anything remotely squishy (pillows, bunched up blankets, superhero torsos, etc) to himself. 

 

And then he starts to sleep every night with his whole body curled around a pillow (or two). 

 

  
Then one morning, Peter wakes up feeling especially emotionally unstable and vulnerable, and without even consciously thinking about it, he brings the pillow he’s clutching with him to breakfast. 

 

He sits at the table, pillow clumsily held in his lap, making it a little difficult to eat his waffles, while the adults in the room watch with fond but curious expressions. 

 

“Wha’cha got there, Pete?” Steve asks, entering the kitchen with a little jog. His hair is wet and he’s very remotely flushed in his face; almost definitely just getting out of his post-workout shower and in search of a snack. 

 

Peter looks up at him, confused, for almost ten seconds before Steve gestures to the pillow in his lap. 

 

“What’s with the pillow, buddy?” He prompts, filling a glass of water. 

 

(No, Peter does not envy that Captain America can use regular glasses and he still has to use plastic. That’s absurd.)

 

It’s really only then that the boy actually realizes he has the pillow with him. He stares at it for a few seconds, contemplating, he doesn’t even know what, before looking up at Steve, pink cheeked and offering an unconvincing: 

 

“Um… I... like it?” It sounds strange even to him. Steve just nods, though, downing the water and raiding the fridge for fruits. Peter looks back to his waffle, brows furrowed as he tries to figure out exactly why he has a pillow in his lap. 

 

Well. He likes to hold onto things when he sleeps. He doesn’t know _why_ , really, but it’s comforting. This… this is comforting, too, he decides. It’s soothing to have something to hold onto. Some weight in his lap, something to absorb his warmth so he can absorb it back. It’s grounding, he guesses. 

 

He holds the pillow firm with one hand and cuts himself a piece of waffle with the other, stabbing his fork through a raspberry in the process and taking a bite. Wanda made these, right? Wanda makes good waffles. 

 

Peter gets a second one when he finishes off the first. 

 

*** 

  
  
After his realization that morning, Peter starts to carry the pillow with him everywhere. He keeps it in his lap when he tinkers, clings to it wherever he happens to be sitting or standing or laying down. He even holds it close when he’s leaning up against an Avenger, the hero’s arm slung over his shoulders or the back of the couch as they watch television or relax in the living room. 

 

Wherever Peter goes, the pillow goes with him. Most frequently, wrapped up in his arms. 

 

It’s after the fifth time in one week that Peter spills juice or spaghetti sauce on the plush and stands next to the washer and dryer, holding his back-up pillow, waiting for his preferred pillow to be cleaned, that Tony decides to take action. 

 

He understands, probably better than most people, how comforting it is to have something to hold onto. It provides a sense of security and stress relief, similar to the effect of a service animal ( _no, no, Tony, absolutely not, you are not getting Peter a service animal, no_.) 

 

But the pillow… the pillow is big. It’s bulky. That’s probably half its appeal to Peter, is that it’s large, like a big shield, it imitates the largeness of another body. But it gets in the way, makes the boy clumsy (clumsier). And Tony’s a little concerned at how impatient, desperate, and nervous the kid gets when he has to wait for the pillow to come out of the laundry. 

 

If he’s going to establish an emotional dependence on something huggable, it should probably be something less easy to stain, Tony thinks. 

 

So one evening, when Bucky and Vision are cleaning dishes from dinner and Natasha is setting up for a movie night (it’s rare that everyone is free on one night, and they feel like they should spend it together, just as friends, when the opportunity comes around), Tony pulls Peter to the side. 

 

Pillow in his arms. 

 

“What’s up Mr. Stark?” He asks in that ridiculously high, sweet child-like voice he now has. Tony grins at him. 

 

“I wanna show you something, kid.” He says, leading the way towards a back room. 

 

It’s mostly long-term and sentimental storage, now (not that the Avengers have a large amount of sentimental collectibles between them), but there’s a few boxes with less dust than others. Tony makes his way towards one of the cardboard boxes and busies himself opening it while he talks to Peter. 

 

“So, the pillow,” he begins, trying to keep his voice light but not teasing. He doesn’t want to scare the kid. Peter shifts from foot to foot anyways, unconsciously holding the plush tighter. 

 

“Yeah?” He says. He sounds too nervous. Tony needs to assure him he’s not in trouble or anything. 

 

“It’s ok, Pete. I- it makes sense. Holding things like that is an emotional comfort to pretty much everyone, you’re not weird or anything. Besides, you’ve got a little more stress to deal with recently. It’s natural that you need something to help you calm down.” Tony explains, pulling out some of the contents of the box. He knows it’s in this one; he labeled it himself for chrissake. 

 

“Um… oh, ok,” Peter says. He peps up a little and Tony considers it a win. This kid, he thinks. Too impressionable, too eager to please. Tony’s a liar if he says it’s not endearing, though. 

 

He finally finds what he’s looking for, feeling all kinds of emotions welling up in his stomach when he picks it up. He keeps it behind his back as he turns to Peter, stepping up to the boy.

 

The kid looks up to him (metaphorically, of course, but very, very literally now) with his big bambi eyes and he’s so very small, Tony _really_  needs to call Pepper when they’re done here. He doesn’t even know what to say; he just knows if he ever has kids, she’ll be the mother, and looking at Peter look up at him like he hangs the fucking moon every night makes him want to hear her voice. 

 

Tony clears his throat and tries to remember the skills he’s been practicing for talking to de-aged Peter. He’s about to start, when he realizes this position is not working at all and drops down to one knee so they’re almost the same height. Then he slowly shows Peter the stuffed bear in his hands. 

 

“This, ah, this was mine when I was a kid. I named her Peggy, and she was my only friend for a very long time.” Tony pauses so Peter can giggle at the ridiculousness of the sentence. “And, when I went to MIT, I was freaking out, constantly. I mean, it was MIT and I was like, fifteen, and so I brought her with me. To college. And she helped. Helped me cope with panic attacks and calmed down my anxiety, generally.”

 

Here goes nothing.

 

“I get it if you don’t wanna carry it around, I mean, it is a stuffed animal, it’s practically a teddy bear, and it’s twice as old as you, but. If you want to. It’s a lot less in-the-way than a pillow.” 

 

He waits in silence for a few moments, studying the toy in his hand, the greying brown ‘fur’, sand and fluff filled paws. The fraying thread at its snout. The spot where the tail fell off and Maria sewed it back on and it fell off again so they just made a new one and stitched it over and over until it would ‘never, ever come off again’. 

 

And then Peter is moving, setting down the pillow slowly, reaching cautiously forwards to grasp the bear. He studies the stuffie for a few moments before looking at Tony, chocolate brown eyes gleaming in the dim light of the room only illuminated by the hall behind them. 

 

“Really, Mr. Stark? Are you serious?” He asks, but it’s not aggressive or judgmental. It’s… reverent. “If this is important to you, are you sure you’re ok with me carrying it around? I mean, what if I get spaghetti on it?” He asks, and he’s so genuinely concerned about it that Tony has to force himself to chuckle fondly instead of straight up cooing at the boy. 

 

“I’m serious, Pete. I trust you with it, and I think it’ll help you. Besides, that bear went through me. At college. I think it could handle some spaghetti stains.” They laugh together at that, and Peter slowly, carefully, brings the plush in closer and closer, until he’s clutching it to his chest, wrapping his arms around it. 

 

He looks terribly, _terribly_  young like that, the child body and baby face clinging to a teddy bear like a literal kid after having a nightmare. Tony swallows down the instinct to reach out and hug the boy. 

 

“Well? Wha’d’ya think?” He prompts. Peter doesn’t meet his eyes for a moment, then swallows thickly and looks up, preening, his smile bursting at the seems.

 

“It’s perfect! Thank you, Tony!” He nearly shouts, throwing his arms around the older man. Tony’s shocked for a moment. He quickly returns the hug, though, and ends up standing up, arms still wrapped around Peter. 

 

He starts to walk out of the room before Peter, panics, yelping ‘wait!’ and telling Tony they can’t leave the pillow here. 

 

Because of course he’s already emotionally attached to it. 

 

Tony bends down and snatches up the pillow without putting Peter down, and the boy happily clings to the older man. 

 

He carries Peter with an exaggerated sway and dramatic steps that make the kid giggle with every movement, all the way back to the living room. When they get there, he drops the younger with an unceremonious flop onto the couch. 

 

Or, rather, onto Steve and Bucky’s laps, both of whom cover their shock at seeing Peter holding onto a stuffed bear (is it because he’s holding the bear or because he looks like a literal, adorable child holding the bear? Tony doesn’t know) by tickling him lightly. 

 

Peter rolls off and away from them in a fit of laughter, but Bucky catches him by the shirt and pulls him back. When Tony leaves to make that phone call to Pepper, he sees Peter wiggling his way into the space between the two super soldiers, snuggling up to the both of them, “Peggy” nestled in his arms. 

 

It’s very, painfully endearing, and makes Tony feel some actual, real feelings like nostalgia and love and other things he is not in the mood to overthink, so he evacuates and whips out his phone. 

 

***

  
  
Peter doesn’t want to be drastic, but he thinks he loves Peggy the bear. 

 

Something like the combination of being just the right size for emotional-comfort-hugging, plus being easier to carry around than the pillow (he still loves that pillow. He feels bad about not holding it now, so maybe tonight he’ll cuddle with the pillow and Peggy), and having such value to Mr. Stark, and even _smelling_  like Mr. Stark (which is, Peter’s found, extremely relaxing to him)— all make Peggy the bear _perfect_. 

 

Peter crowds his knees up to Bucky’s side and snuggles further into the warm space between him and Steve. They’re watching some action movie, it looks like it could be one of the ‘James Bond’ ones, and it’s very possible, knowing Natasha. 

  
  
She and Clint like to watch spy movies so they (real spies) can point out the inaccuracies. 

 

It’s actually pretty funny to witness. 

 

Peter takes a deep breath and he doesn’t need enhanced senses to smell the shampoo and cologne coming from Steve, Bucky, and Peggy. It’s comforting and soothing and he holds the stuffie a little closer, leaning backwards so his shoulder is against Steve’s arm and nuzzling his face into the soldier’s side. Steve gets the message loud and clear, moving his arm out of the way and draping it over the exceedingly small boy, pulling him in a little. 

 

“You gonna fall asleep, Pete?” He prompts. Peter shakes his head, but his eyes are heavy. Something about being in a child’s body, he thinks. He’s tired constantly, especially after eating. Especially in the evening. Especially when he feels so warm and safe and everything smells secure and grounding, and— 

 

Yeah. Ok. He might fall asleep. 

  
Tony walks back into the living room a few minutes later, though, hanging up his phone and plopping down in the armchair next to the couch Peter and the soldiers are on, giving Peter something between a knowing smirk and a fond grin, and his presence completes the comfort and the _safety_  (it could really only increase if May and Ned and MJ were here), and Peter thinks that he wouldn’t mind sleeping now. anyways. 

 

He moves impossibly closer to Steve, clutching Tony’s Peggy to his chest, legs soaking up Bucky’s warmth, and drifts off just when the James Bond theme music starts to play. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To reiterate: I posted two chapters tonight, in case you missed the one just before this! That’s 4k of angsty feelings though, so maybe this could make up for that infiltration of Angst into my happy place fic :D
> 
> Thanks very much for reading, I hope you enjoyed <3


	9. Blowing Raspberries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter seeks attention from Steve. They bother Tony together, and then the tables turn on the young boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote half of this, fell asleep, woke up at an ungodly hour of the morning to finish and post it, and I'm going back to bed in a hot minute. I hope it still reads smoothly!! 
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope you like it lovely people <3

Mr. Stark isn’t  _ignoring_  him, exactly.

 

It’s just that this time, instead of working on tech or anything science related that Peter could help with (or even be interested in), he's just got Stark Industries business.

 

Something or another about stocks and investments and patrons, things that Tony told Peter he wouldn’t like with a sympathetic smile. And Peter understood. Understands. Really, he does.

 

It’s just. He wants to hang out with Mr. Stark, would rather spend time with his mentor than try aimlessly to entertain himself. But he really, genuinely cannot stand to sit there and read a one hundred page memo over Tony’s shoulder or listen to Mr. Stark talk about influx and productions on the phone with Pepper.

 

It’s… it’s  _boring_ , and Peter wants to spend time with Tony, he really does, but he has the attention span of an eight year old and even counting the darker streaks on a wooden coffee table would be more interesting than that.

 

So Peter sits at a stool in the kitchen. And he swings his legs.

 

And he sits. And he swings.

 

And he sits.

 

And he swings.

 

And after face planting on the counter top and groaning loud enough for any non super-powered person in the entire compound to hear, he decides to head down to the training gym.

 

He might find Steve, or, maybe Bucky or Sam. Or Natasha, if he’s very lucky, because she’s taken up teaching him self defense tactics.

 

They’re kind of pointless, because for him to learn them, they all have to be for small children with proportional strength, and in a few weeks he will neither be a small child nor have human strength. But it’s fun, nonetheless. So far she’s taught him three different ways to escape holds and all the places to target someone if they come at him, like just the right way to kick someone in the knees to send them dropping to the ground.

 

Mr. Stark is somewhere between approving and disapproving, because he can’t argue that it’s a good set of information and skills to have, and it’s a good way to keep Peter occupied; but he’s not fond of Peter doing anything physically advanced. Like training, even if it is tame and with Natasha, because even with her skills, “it’s only a matter of time before he trips or slips and breaks something”.

 

Needless to say, training  _with_  his spider suit has never been further from an option.

 

But Peter skips down to the gym regardless. Even if he doesn’t find Natasha, Bucky is great for talking to. And if neither of them are there, Steve or Sam probably will be, and they’re both interesting. At the very least until Mr. Stark is done with his SI business.

 

The doors to the gym don’t ever get lighter, no matter how many times Peter throws all his body weight into opening them. He nearly trips worming his way inside, but manages to get in without too much issue.

 

It’s almost empty in the training gym, and he looks around to find Steve off in the back corner. No Natasha or Bucky or Sam, but by the looks of it, Steve has been at his boxing for a while (there are already two punching bags on the ground, looking like they’ve been knocked off the chain) and might be ready to take a break.

 

Peter slides his sock clad feet across the slick flooring, slipping his way over to the far corner.

 

“Um, Steve? Mr. Rogers, Cap? Do you have a second?” He asks, hands fidgeting behind his back as he rocks from his heels to his toes. One more punch hits the bag and then Steve turns to Peter, shoulders heaving with heavy breathing.

 

He grins a little and runs a hand through sweaty hair as he looks down at the boy.

 

“Hey buddy, what’s up?” He prompts, reaching over and taking a long drink from a bottle of water. He’s still breathing hard and Peter’s grateful for his lack of enhanced senses and the small distance between them, because he imagines the man smells heavily of sweat right now.

 

“Oh, I- um, I was wondering if you were busy at all? I, uh, I don’t really have anything to do right now, ‘cause Mr. Stark is still working and I’m just a bit, um-” Peter struggles through the request and Steve cuts him off with a fond, sympathetic smile.

 

“Bored?” The soldier offers. The boy nods, looking up at Steve with hopeful eyes. The man just grins and shrugs.

 

“Tell you what, why don’t you put those boxes away while I grab a quick shower, and then we can go find something to do. Sound good?” He says. Peter perks up immediately, because  _yes_ , he was worried he’d get brushed off. Thank God (Thor?) for Steve Rogers.

 

“Yeah! Sounds great!” Peter exclaims, bouncing on his feet and trying not to seem too overly excited. Steve just grins at him and nods his head in the direction of the boxes. He jogs off towards the shower as Peter hurries over to the exercise crates.

 

There’s a variety of sizes and a range of colors. Peter starts with the second largest, dark blue, unable to pick it up but managing to push it over to the wall. Then he goes back for the third largest and pushes that one over too, slipping a bit as he does. He repeats the process until he can carry them over, and then works on stacking what he can.

 

By the time he has all but the biggest box back, he’s got the sleeves of his hoodie rolled up and his cheeks are a little pink from the exertion. He’s in the process of failing to push the largest (and heaviest) red crate towards the wall, at what must be a comical angle with his socks slipping on the floor and the box not budging, when who hands come to help him.

 

One reaches for the handle of the box and lifts it up in a flash, the other catching Peter by the back of his hoodie and keeping him from falling flat on his stomach, hauling him up to stand properly.

 

Peter thanks Steve sheepishly as the soldier drops the largest crate against the wall, turning back to Peter. He’s wearing new, clean clothes now, his blonde hair dark from the shower and a little messy from a speedy towel dry.

 

“So, anything in particular you wanna do, kiddo?” The older man asks, stepping over to Peter. The way he kneels down in front of the small boy and fixes his hoodie, correcting the collar and straightening out the bottom hem, all seems almost subconscious.

 

Natural, like he doesn’t really realize he’s doing it, isn’t quite thinking about the action.

 

Even stranger is how natural it feels to Peter, who barely notices it happening. He’s distracted, though, by a sudden realization.

 

His realization must show on his face, because then Steve looks at him with concern, hands coming up to gently hold the boy’s forearms.

 

“Pete? What’s wrong?” He asks, thumbs rubbing over the sleeves of Peter’s hoodie. The younger takes a few deep breaths before looking the soldier in the eyes, and with no shortage of distress, saying:

 

“Even kneeling you’re almost as tall as me. I’m almost as short as you on your  _knees_.”

 

And really, he is very distressed.

 

Steve stares at him for a moment, blankly, before breaking out in soft laughter. He lets go of Peter’s arms and rubs his forehead for a moment, before smiling up at the kid.

 

“You know what might make you feel better?” He offers. Peter tilts his head to the side, hair flopping, and looks at the older man quizzically.

 

“What?” He practically pouts, and is taken by immense surprise when Steve stands up, snatching Peter under the arms and hauling him higher and higher, pulling the boy up onto his shoulders.

 

Peter almost panics for a moment, yelping at the action and clinging to Steve, legs pressing against the soldier’s chest and hands coming to hold frantically to Steve’s arms where he’s still holding the boy up.

 

It takes a few seconds of startled fear, and Steve slowly easing his hands away, but after a couple deep breaths, Peter absolutely  _preens_.

 

“Oh my god, oh my god, this is the best day of my life,” he babbles, hands finding their way to the older man’s head to steady himself. Steve just laughs, holding Peter’s legs and turning towards the doors.

 

“Let’s see if we can convince Tony to take a break, huh?” The soldier suggests. Peter’s heart skips and he laughs, his lightly drumming his feet and hands against the frankly rock solid man.

 

“Yes, definitely yes, let’s do that please,” Peter rambles out, excited. Holy shit, he’s so high up. Steve is so tall, oh man, Steve is so tall.

 

Steve is seriously so very tall, Peter is going to have a heart attack and die happy. He hasn’t gotten a ride on someone’s shoulders in ages, in years. Since he was a little kid. Since he was a little kid and Ben would hike him up high and walk around dancing and swaying, nearly dropping Peter off, just to freak out May so she’d fuss over them both, then make creative threats about preserving safety.

 

Thinking about Uncle Ben and Aunt May makes Peter sad, though, so he tries to let the bad things run through fast and remember the good memories, smiling softly to himself. 

 

He lets Steve carry him through the compound and, with Friday’s helpful direction, they head for the living room to find Tony.

 

Mr. Stark is standing behind one of the couches, a tablet in hand. He’s leaning over the back, his arms braced on the backrest cushions, looking deep in thought and gnawing on the corner of his bottom lip.

 

Steve just strolls right up to the billionaire, small grin on his face. He stands right next to Tony and gives a faux exasperated sigh.

 

“Hey Tones,” he interrupts the other man’s thoughts, earning a distracted ‘hm?’ in response.

 

Peter bounces on Steve shoulders for a few more seconds, before getting a terribly annoying idea and just  _having_  to execute it. So he lets go of Steve and throws himself towards his mentor.

 

“Tony catch me!” He shouts gleefully, dropping off Steve’s shoulders. The inventor startles with a surprised shout, dropping his tablet onto the couch and turning fast to catch a giggling Peter in his arms.

 

It takes him a second of confused scowling, before he scoffs and rolls his eyes. Peter can see the playful undertones in the crinkles of his eyes, though.

 

“You’re a menace,” he groans, no real heat to the words. Peter just laughs, Steve laughing with him.

 

“Here, hold this,” Tony grumbles, dumping Peter unceremoniously back into the soldier’s arms. Peter lets himself be transferred with an ‘oomph’, immediately squirming in Steve’s cradling arms.

 

“Aw, you’re no fun at all,” he mocks, giving a dramatic pout.

 

Tony turns to him again, eyebrows raised and a devious twitch to the corner of his otherwise usual smirk that screams ‘danger!’. “Oh yeah?” He prompts, rolling up his sleeves.

 

Peter’s in the midst of nodding when he’s attacked.

 

Tony goes for his belly first, his ribs, his fingers tickling the small boy through his hoodie. Peter shrieks and tries to flail away, but Steve somehow manages to keep him in his grip, holding him in place as he writhes, breathless laughter escaping him.

 

Peter had forgotten a long time ago how much he hates and loves being tickled— considering no one has done it since he was actually a young kid (maybe with one or two exceptions from Ned casually doing it). To be fair, it really started with Bucky, but people have being tickling him more and more often at the compound now, and it’s kind of awful (great).

 

Fingers go after his armpits and Peter yelps, almost elbowing Tony in the face in his attempt to squirm away. He can hardly breathe through his own laughing, kicking out and trying to push Tony away while also wrapping his arms around himself. It doesn’t work out, and he just keeps struggling in Steve’s grip, kicking and hiccuping laughter.

 

Without warning, Tony yanks Peter’s hoodie up to his chest, exposing his belly, and offending hands go to hold the boy’s sides as Mr. Stark drops down, blowing a raspberry onto Peter’s tummy.

 

The younger almost screams, thrashing around and trying fruitlessly to escape. Steve is laughing above him, the traitor, he Peter’s typically mildly flushed cheeks are going full pink now, venturing into red territory as his breath keeps being stolen from him. He tries to roll into Steve, hide his sensitive belly in the man’s shirt, but Tony keeps tugging him back.

 

It seems like the more erratic and helpless Peter laughs, the more raspberries Tony blows on his tummy, and the more bronx cheers Tony blows, the more Peter laughs.

 

Eventually Peter manages to get his hands planted on Mr. Stark’s shoulders and, his back still spasming, choke out a distressed, “M-Mr. S-St-Stark I c-can’t b-breathe-!” Even after that, Tony gives him one more raspberry and a horribly ticklish kiss to his middle before finally letting up and easing away. He keeps his hands on Peter’s shoulder and knee while the boy cools down, Steve adjusting his grip from all of the kid’s flailing.

 

Peter wipes at his eyes, not even realizing the tickling and laughing brought him to tears, and pulls his hoodie down fast, curling in on himself protectively, still giggling with aftershocks.

 

Steve and Tony are both chuckling too, a self-satisfied smirk on Mr. Stark’s face. Peter wiggles his way out of Steve’s grip, wobbly legs hitting the floor and not really minding how Steve keeps one hand on him to hold him steady.

 

“Evil,” he breathes out. “You’re evil.” He play-glares up at Tony, wrapping his arms around himself. Tony grins and raises an eyebrow, grabbing his tablet back off the cushion.

 

“But fun,” the inventor adds, a smug look on his face.

 

It’s barely a few seconds later, Peter having stuck out his tongue at Tony and the billionaire repeating the gesture, when Natasha enters the communal living room, hair up in a bun. Peter perks up and runs quickly to her, sliding on the floor and latching onto her legs and waist to whip himself around her body and hide behind her.

 

“Oh, come on, the spy? Really, Petey?” Tony quips, making an exaggerated scoff. Peter giggles again as Natasha’s hand comes around to mess up his (already messy) hair.

 

“She’s not evil,” he says proudly, beaming up at Natasha, who just gives him a fond, satisfied grin in return.

 

“What?! She’s the evilest one!” Steve cries out, making the other three burst into laughter again. Peter hugs Nat’s legs a little tighter as she she gives a small shrug to Steve, taking a sip from what looks like a smoothie with the hand that’s not still in Peter’s hair.

 

“Spider solidarity, I’m telling you,” Tony fake-grumbles, “unbelievable. Ridiculous.”

 

Peter giggles at that, and the adults laugh a little more, too. He looks up at Natasha again and she gives him one of her loaded-espionage-smirks, brushing a couple unruly curls out of his face as if to say ‘ _well. He’s not wrong_ ’.

 

Pshhh. She’s not the evilest one. She’s the best, Peter thinks.

 

His scary awesome spider mom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun story about how these chapters/ficlets are based off a compilation of headcanons I had for this au, and I'm actually nearing the end of my list, so idk if anyone might have any but prompts are cool bc I'm attached to this verse . 
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope you liked it <3


	10. Sick Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has the flu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what this is. It's late for me right now but I had to get this out, I have like 40 sick Peter headcanons that I want to write yikes 
> 
> Thanks so much to all the lovely people leaving kudos and comments, I t h r i v e off support and I love you all. 
> 
> Anywho, this is kinda weird, I but I hope you like it! Thanks lots for reading babes <3

Peter is sick. 

 

Peter hates being sick. 

 

He hasn’t gotten so much as a cold since the whole radioactive spider thing, his super healing and generally enhanced body was always able to protect against and fight off any viruses or bacteria he might’ve encountered before he even felt a symptom. 

 

And Peter? Peter Parker was not the… healthiest child in the world. His immune system was about as strong as the rest of him— meaning not very strong at all. So when he realized he hadn’t gotten so much as a cough or chills in months after being bitten, and proceeded not to catch even the slightest cold since, he was wonderfully grateful to his enhanced immune system. 

 

Like his spider sense, it was something he could always count on to function even if he was having the off-est off day in the history of off days— he wouldn’t get sick. And he treasured that.

 

So _of course_  when he gets turned into an already immunocompromised child and loses his powers, _of course_  he gets sick. 

 

_Of course_. 

 

What started out one evening as a mild headache and some congestion, some coughing, by the next morning turned into the full fledged flu virus. 

 

Dr. Banner had to promise Mr. Stark over and over again that it isn’t because of the freaky magic plant that made Peter small in the first place, and it isn’t a side-effect of something more serious doing even more damage. 

 

It’s just a regular, run-of-the-mill flu-induced fever.

 

Peter _hates_  it. 

 

His head hurts, his eyes hurt, his whole body is achy and cold and he feels sick to his stomach. He puked early in the morning, something Friday had alerted Tony to and caused the billionaire to come swooping into the bathroom in his sleep pants. 

 

Mr. Stark stayed with Peter (the boy has no idea how; while he didn’t puke again after that first bout and flushed it down immediately, the whole bathroom probably smelled like vomit and sweat) while he sat hunched over the toilet, offering back rubs and water and a cold, damp washcloth on his forehead and the the back of his neck.

 

When Peter finally stopped feeling nauseous, Tony picked him up and carried him to medbay, having Friday wake up Bruce so the two could check him over. Blood and saliva samples, way too many tests, and enough hours to bring the rising sun later— and Peter was diagnosed with influenza.

 

So now he’s bundled up in blankets in the living room, in a pair of pajamas that he hadn’t hurled while wearing, eating chicken noodle soup while Sam carefully watches him to make sure he doesn’t spill or drop the bowl. There's vitamin water and juice on the coffee table in front of him and saltine crackers on the end table beside the couch.

 

He’s huddled up close to the armrest with pillows and Peggy the Bear, and Mr. Stark had Friday dim the windows so it’s not so bright (even though it’s cloudy today anyways), bottles of pain relief and vitamin supplements within arm's reach (even though every adult in the compound is watching like a hawk to make sure he waits long enough in between doses of medicine).

 

He wants to snark Sam for how carefully he watches Peter spooning soup into his mouth, but he thinks it’s pretty fair considering how shaky and weak he feels. 

 

God, he’s _tired_.

 

He’s tired and achy and wants to go back to sleep, but Steve woke him up to eat and now no one will let him sleep again until he does. 

 

There’s a Harry Potter marathon running on the TV, but it’s at a low volume with the subtitles on. Peter knows Natasha and Bruce were in the living room with him watching earlier, but they were gone when Steve woke him up, and he wonders where they went. He likes having Natasha near. Everything is more comfortable when she’s close, somehow. 

 

Peter finishes his chicken noodle soup slowly, but once it’s gone, Sam takes the bowl from him and brings it back to the kitchen, sitting down on a puffy chair when he’s done. Steve sits down next to the small boy on the couch and reaches out, pushing some of Peter’s unruly hair out of his face. 

 

“Think you can have some more pain relief now, if you want some.” The soldier says, almost absent minded as he runs his fingers through chestnut waves. 

 

Peter nods enthusiastically at the prospect of more meds, and immediately regrets it, headache flaring up. He must cringe at himself, because Steve gives him a smile somewhere between amused and sympathetic as he gets up to grab the bottles.

 

(They’re children’s meds, of course they are. Tony bought them in a panic while Peter was still hanging his head over the toilet bowl early that morning, after a frantic inventory check confirmed they did not, in fact, have medication suitable for kids hanging around the compound). 

 

Steve dishes out two tablets for Peter and a little measuring cup of absolutely disgusting red liquid. Whispering 'thank you', the boy lets the capsules dissolve in his mouth first, then downs the terriblehorribleawful medication as fast as he can, immediately chugging fruit flavored vitamin water to wash away the taste. 

 

The soldier must notice how gross it is, likely reflected on Peter’s face, because he chuckles a little as he sits back down. 

 

“That bad, huh?” He offers. All Peter can do is hum in agreement as he downs the water, willing the nasty flavor of ‘worst ever attempt at cherry’ to leave his mouth. 

 

Steve just laughs, patting Peter’s shoulder and sitting down next to the boy. 

 

Just when the younger is twisting the cap back on his water, Bucky comes up behind him. He rests his flesh arm on the back of the couch, metal hand coming around to touch Peter’s burning forehead. The cold is a shock and kind of hurts, but soothing at the same time, and after a moment Peter leans into the touch. 

 

He almost preens when Bucky moves his hand down to cup the boy’s cheek and jaw, basking in the pleasant coolness. The contrast to how he shudders and gets shivers all over his arms and legs at the slightest chill to the rest of his body is stark, to say in the least. 

 

“You’re really burning up, kiddo. How you feelin’?” The man asks, his head just behind Peter’s. The boy shrugs, closing his eyes and letting the weight of his head rest against Bucky’s hand. 

 

“Not great, but, better than this morning, thanks,” he answers softly (not for the first time today). Bucky makes a sound of sympathy that’s suspiciously close to an ‘aw’, not exactly kissing but pressing his mouth, chin and nose into Peter’s fluffed up, wild hair. 

 

The boy starts to go pliant and heavy-lidded incredibly fast, and Bucky has to pull his hand away and kind of guide the kid to lay back down before he passes out with his face in the man’s palm. 

 

Steve helps Peter lie down again, the kid’s legs sprawling out over Steve’s lap. The man doesn’t mind at all, resting his hands on Peter’s small shins. Bucky goes to sit down in one of the comfy chairs by the couch, plopping down and snatching one of the saltine crackers. 

 

A few minutes after Peter falls asleep, the medicine working blissfully fast and helping soothe away his headache enough for flu-caused exhaustion to take him out, Tony meanders back into the living room. At the sight of Peter asleep on the couch, blanket-clad legs over Steve’s thighs, Bucky and Sam in the chairs around him, the man can’t help but grin. 

 

Something opposite the part of him that’s panicking and upset to see Peter sick is taking satisfaction in seeing how everyone comes to the boy’s aid. Like a team of worried nurses, they all have to stop themselves from fussing over the kid, only managing that self control because they know how much he’d hate them coddling him. 

 

Tony decides there’s really no harm in joining them and takes a seat on the couch beside Steve. He has to lift Peter’s legs to sit there, slow and careful as not to wake the boy who’s currently curled around a stuffed bear and cuddled up to pillows and the back of the sofa. 

 

When he’s seated and sets Peter’s legs back down, only the kid’s feet land on his lap. He studies how small and fragile even Peter’s sock covered feet look. It makes him think a bit, how Peter looks anything but tough and durable as a super-powered teenager but seems downright delicate as a child. He’s positively scrawny, a tiny kid (even for a, what, eight year old?) who looks like if he runs recklessly, instead of carpet burn he’ll break both his legs. 

 

It doesn’t help to see him sick, pale and barely able to keep his eyes open. Tony wonders if this is something that happens to anyone when they get attached to a little kid, or just superhero housemates with a communal surrogate child. 

 

He starts to wonder if he’s supposed to be _this_  protective of the kid, but decides that’s not a conversation he wants Rhodey to inevitably drag out of him if he thinks on it too much, and promptly puts his focus on the Harry Potter marathon.

 

He tries to figure out which movie they’re on, hands absently finding one of Peter’s small feet, thumb massaging the arch of his foot. Peter shifts in his sleep and sighs contently, and it’s because Tony is smiling fondly at him that he almost doesn’t notice the other three Avengers doing the same thing. 

 

_Oh shit_ , he thinks. _Fuck_. 

 

Peter’s got them all wrapped around his incredibly small finger— and he doesn’t even know it. 

 

Tony’s thumb presses into the base of the boy’s toes and Peter hums in his sleep, and Tony can see how Bucky Barnes (the _Winter Soldier_ ) damn near _coos_  at the kid, and all he can do is smile at himself. 

 

Yeah. They’re all completely sold on this kid. 

 

(Peter mumbles and sniffles a little and tucks his face into the pillows and it’s unnecessarily cute). 

 

Tony’s not even mad about it. 


	11. Not An Update

I'm going on vacation!!! I'll be gone up until July and thought I'd make a lil announcement, because I won't be updating during that time. But!! I will have lots to post when I come back!! 

 

Thank you very much to everyone reading and sending me encouragement, you're babes and I love you <3

 

p.s. Far From Home comes out, like, *when* I get back and I am Not Ready. Marvel is seriously fucking with my Endgame-coping-plan to ignore canon. If FFH makes me cry more than five times I  _will_ be physically fighting someone

 

p.p.s. I love you one more time <3 <3


	12. Quadruple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Parker spends a day with Pepper Potts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!! I'm back!! And I have chapters with me!!
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who wished me a good vacation, you're all lovely and it was a blast and I feel weird /not/ responding to everyone so if you get a response at 3am to a comment you made half a month ago, you now know why!
> 
> Also, Far From Home comes out tomorrow (it's still July 1st where I am) and I probably won't be seeing it until next monday, so. Fear. That's, that's what I feel. Fear and unchecked excitement. But mostly fear. 
> 
> Hope you like this chapter, I wrote it while sleep deprived !! <3

Peter thinks people are making a point of not inviting him to things. 

 

  
There's another big Avengers "mission" (that Peter's actually pretty sure is just a meeting, considering everyone _has_  to go— everyone except Peter, that is— but no one is acting like the apocalypse is happening). Mr. Stark had told Peter not to get into any trouble, Sam Wilson ruffled his hair and told him to get into as much trouble as possible, and then everybody packed up and left. 

 

  
They headed out around nine o'clock in the morning. Steve had a big bag with him and Natasha was whispering a lot to Bucky, and Wanda kept touching Vision's forehead. Nobody told Peter what was going on, exactly, no matter how many times he asked. The whole morning was all 'we'll tell you later, Peter' and 'an Avenger's mission, kid, that's all'. 

 

  
Peter couldn't decide between being insulted and annoyed over them acting like he isn't an Avenger too, and all but vibrating out of his own socks with the repressed urge to ask 'just one more time'. 

 

  
Either way, nobody told him anything. 

 

  
On the bright side, though, Peter gets to spend the day with Pepper. 

 

  
And Ms. Potts is the coolest ever, basically, Peter thinks. 

 

  
She always seems so put together and so organized (and consistently makes intelligent decisions, Peter's noticed) and she loves Mr. Stark, and she runs Stark Industries, and she bakes bread. 

 

  
And she lets _Peter_  bake bread _with her_. 

 

  
She helps him scoop flower and measure baking soda. Pepper has to take over mixing, because Peter's hands get tired (which almost prompts a tearful crisis, but Pepper carefully talks him through that), and Peter gets to slide it into the oven. 

 

  
It's just a plain loaf without any extra herbs or seasonings, but they think they might turn it into garlic bread for dinner tonight. 

 

  
While they wait for their bread to bake, the two sit judging the quality of a variety pack of fruit juices. Pepper dug it out of the way back of one pantry when Peter sheepishly asked her to help him get some juice (those cartons are _heavy_  ok?), and told Peter about Steve's extremely short juice box phase from a few months ago. 

 

  
The sit together at the kitchen table, each taking one of the two boxes per flavor and pushing little plastic straws through the covers. 

 

  
Pepper thinks the pineapple is best, but Peter likes the cherry. 

 

  
They agree that the 'green grape' flavor is the worst. 

 

  
When they've successfully drank an entire pack worth of juice by themselves, and the bread is no where near done, they make their way to the garage. 

 

  
There are probably too many cars in the compound's garage, ranging from a few of Tony's sports cars to Avengers combat and transportation vehicles to bicycles (which really aren't cars, but there's enough of them to be worth mentioning). 

 

  
Aside from all the modes of transportation and some other equipment and a few boxes worth of old parts, the garage has something far more entertaining. 

 

  
Walls. 

 

  
Plain, grey, probably-concrete walls. 

 

  
And the Avengers compound is, to Peter's delight and Pepper's amusement, well-stocked in paint. 

 

  
What else are Peter and Pepper supposed to do, if not put said paint on said walls? 

 

  
It's that thought that gets them suited up in ratty old shirts and shorts, paint in their hair and on their palms and elbows and cheeks, brushes abandoned on the floor in favor of their hands. 

 

  
They started small, with intricate little paintings of simple things, using all the different brushes and buckets of water to rinse the bristles. After maybe twenty minutes of that, though, they switch to bigger things. 

 

  
Pepper paints a whole garden for her initial flower, and Peter strikes through his little trees and dogs and fruits, turning his miniature paintings into a collage of colors. 

 

  
At some point he starts to make circles, and doesn't really stop until he's covered a large portion of the wall with technicolor globes and bubbles and planets. He makes a giant Earth with every color they have all swirled and blended together in swipes and stripes and messy paint. 

 

  
Peter actually has to grab a chair (and then a lot of thick Encyclopedias to put on top of the chair) to reach all the places he wants to paint, but Pepper helps him move around and not fall over. 

 

  
Almost an hour into the painting session, Pepper gets a call from Tony. She walks away and talks quietly, and Peter's pretty preoccupied anyways, but the mention of Mr. Stark makes him want to paint little tributes to all the Avengers on the wall. 

 

  
He doesn't need to search up Internet pictures or (even ask Pepper) to remember what the arc reactor looks like. And of course he knows how to paint Steve's shield, and Natasha's hour glass symbol. He paints a little erlenmeyer flask for Dr. Banner, and a bow with an arrow for Clint, and a lightning bolt for Thor. 

 

  
That one took a little bit of thinking, Peter trying to decide whether to paint one of Thor's weapons or not, but eventually he went with a little cloud and a lightning bolt for the God of Thunder. 

 

  
Peter kind of struggles for a while with what to paint for everybody else. He does a grey iron helmet for War Machine, and wings for Sam, and his best attempt at a metal arm for Bucky, but Peter's also pretty sure that Mr. Barnes has conflicting feelings about the bionic arm, so he also enlists Pepper's help with putting pretty flowers on it. 

 

  
Peter ends up painting a yellow mind stone with lots of wavy red ribbon looking stripes around it to be Vision and Wanda, but it looks incomplete until he adds a bunch of cookies around the pictures. 

 

  
He also adds an ant and his most dedicated try at a wasp, for Scott and Hope, and a snake next to Thor's thunder cloud (Dr. Banner once told a story about Loki tricking Thor with a snake, and Peter's pretty sure Natasha almost died laughing). 

 

  
He's trying to decide who all else to paint in when Pepper finishes her phone call and offers for the two of them to make dessert for after dinner, too, which Peter jumps at the prospect of. (If that was supposed to be a clever way of making sure Peter didn't get any more paint on himself and was motivated to wash off what acrylic he did manage to get all over— well. The boy's not complaining). 

 

  
They wash off the paint and change into clean clothes, only to put aprons over their fronts. There aren't any small-child sized aprons in the compound, so they take the smallest one they can find (with embroidered pies all over it) and safety pin the bottom and the straps so that its fitted to Peter. 

 

  
The bread still isn't done yet, but they start making bundt cakes anyways. 

 

  
The two decide on a couple different flavors: vanilla, chocolate, red velvet, and carrot. Pepper asks Friday to have some neapolitan ice cream delivered to the compound, too. 

 

  
The bundt cakes are a lot smaller than the bread dough, and batter is way easier to mix, so Peter does all the chocolate and carrot batters by himself (mostly). Pepper does the vanilla and red velvet, probably because Peter would've gotten food dye on himself and clean clothes, and she gets all the bowls down for them to do the mixing. 

 

  
They make all but the carrot cake from scratch, and end up having to reuse molds. 

 

  
While they wait for everything to cook, the two end up playing monopoly. Pepper wins, which Peter doesn't understand because it's definitely not a skill game, you just draw cards right? Either way, she completely smashes the first round and definitely lets Peter win the second time, but he takes what he can get. 

 

  
By the time the bread is done and all the bundt cakes are ready for frosting, it's nearing evening. 

 

  
So once Pepper has helped Peter messily layer vanilla and chocolate frosting onto all the bundt cakes, they think, why not? They've been cooking all day anyways. 

 

  
Peter brainstorms dinner options while Pepper takes another phone call. 

 

  
He always admired Ms. Potts and thought she was incredible, but honestly, he was a little bit scared of her because of how much she did. It kind of seemed like she reserved every last drop of patience for Mr. Stark's occasional "moods", though she's always nice and level with everyone. 

 

  
But today— today Peter made a discovery. 

 

  
Pepper Potts is _so cool_. She baked with him and painted the garage walls and played board games, and now they're going to make dinner for all the Avengers for when they get home. Peter wonders why he never found some excuse to hang around Pepper before, because the woman is the absolute best to be around. 

 

  
Plus, she didn't treat him like a kid. 

 

  
(Well, she did, because technically he's just a teenager, but she didn't act like he was actually an incompetent eight-year-old, which some of the others occasionally do.)

 

  
Instead, Pepper talked to him normally and really only helped him do things when he asked (like getting bowls down and finding the pack of juice boxes). 

 

  
Pepper's phone call doesn't take long at all, and when she comes back, Peter already has an idea. 

 

  
"Spaghetti?" Pepper says. Peter nods.

 

  
"Spaghetti. With meatballs, and tomato sauce, but we gotta take the basil leaves out after we make it because I always end up with one in my mouth and it's gross." He explains, bouncing on his heals. 

 

  
Pepper just nods and smiles and tells him what he (at his... height) can grab for making the meal while she gets the rest. 

 

  
Ms. Potts makes the sauce from scratch at the counter while Peter stands on a chair and watches the noodles. He makes pasta with May all the time, so he knows just when to take them out to make sure they're the best. Not too squishy, but not under cooked.

 

  
Pepper helps him empty the boiling water around 7:30 in the evening.  

 

  
The Avengers, in varying degrees of tired and all seeming slightly irritated, arrive just as Peter's putting plates on the biggest table they have. Pepper is combining meatballs, sauce and noodles into two giant bowls as the boy sets out napkins. 

 

  
Peter can't even bring himself to feel shame when, the moment Mr. Stark walks into the kitchen, the younger runs to hug him. Tony hugs back, gently, but wrapping his arms almost completely around the kid. 

 

  
"We made food!" Peter exclaims, excitedly ushering the heroes towards the table, where Pepper is dishing out heaps of spaghetti and sliced bread onto everyone's plates. 

 

  
She grins when she sees the group, offering a little quirk of her eyebrows. "Today is a carbs only day." She states. 

 

  
The others laugh and Tony walks forward to kiss her, Peter still wrapped up in his arms. 

 

  
It seems like they had one hell of a day, because even the non-super soldiers take seconds and thirds. Peter can barely finish one plate (curse his child-sized stomach), but he eats all the meatballs and most of the noodles. 

 

  
Tony and Steve start talking about the meeting, some vague comments about contractual obligations that no one is planning on agreeing to, earning a look somewhere between reprimanding and proud from Pepper. Peter listens for a while, trying to piece together what they're talking about, swinging his feet and convincing himself to eat just a _little bit more_. 

 

  
He doesn't manage to get far, because somewhere between Sam's comment about reforming the "Avengers Initiative" and Rhodey telling Wanda that the 'guardians of the galaxy' found some Very Top Secret inscription on a cave wall on a planet way far away (from what Peter picked up), the boy nods off. 

 

  
His plate is scooted away just enough for him to fold his arms on top of the table and rest his head there, and he's barely relaxed for a few minutes before he's sound asleep. 

 

  
Not having the naps his child-body requires throughout the day probably wasn't the absolute best decision, but he was just having so much fun with Pepper, he didn't want to sleep. He didn't even feel tired until after eating too much dinner and winding down from such an engaging day. 

 

  
Pepper ends up telling the others about the bundt cakes— of which Bucky instantly claims "at least three pieces of the chocolate"— and they decide to leave the kid a piece of carrot cake with vanilla frosting. 

 

  
Somewhere between surprisingly and not surprising at all, the desserts are delicious. Pepper couldn't be more proud, watching everyone enjoy the cakes she made with Peter.

 

They eat quietly, after Peter doesn't wake up for a few minutes and they decide just to let him sleep. When the boy shifts and almost gets his hair in the sauce on his nearby plate, Steve finally stands up. 

 

He takes Peter under the arms, pulling him gently off the table and whispering quietly to him, soft words that the non-super soldiers can't really hear but sound like 'ok, buddy, time for bed'. 

 

Steve lifts Peter effortlessly, the boy's arms instinctively wrapping around the man's broad shoulders, making himself a koala around Steve. The older just holds onto him and carries the kid to his room, careful to step lightly. He's planning on going back right away to finish his cake, but as he starts to pull away after cautiously depositing Peter on the bed, the kid makes a sound that's near wounded and clings to him, still asleep. 

 

What can Steve do but sigh in utter defeat and lay down? 

 

The kid snuggles up to him immediately, no doubt drawn to the warmth he'd already started soaking up from the soldier, in contrast to the cool blankets. Steve just wraps one arm around the small boy, rubbing his back a little and smoothing out his hair until the bed is warmed up some and Peter's lulled back into a deeper sleep. Deep enough for Steve to ruffle his hair once more and slip back out of the bed, fixing the sheets around the kid. 

 

He pauses in the doorway to look back with a loud fondness in the back of his head. 

 

He must not have slept throughout his day with Pepper, Steve figures, because the boy's out cold. 

 

The rest of them should get some sleep, too. It's late, it's been a long day, and when that kid wakes up, rested and ready to go, he'll probably be eating cake for breakfast. 

 

And that... that is something they need as much energy as possible to handle. 

 

(Maybe they should've saved their cake for breakfast, too.)

 

(Maybe they can convince Pepper to just make some more.) 

 

(Maybe they can get  _Peter_ to convince Pepper to make some more.) 


	13. Hide and Seek (Heart Attack)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter plays hide and seek with the Avengers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little shorter, but I had this idea in my brain and had to get it out. 
> 
> Anyways, this is the second chapter I'm posting today/tonight, just in case you missed the first one! 
> 
> Thanks lots for reading, all the love <3

Ok, yeah. 

 

  
The point is to be the last person not found, and then you win. 

 

  
The purpose of the game is to hide so well, that no one can find you until you decide to reveal yourself. 

 

  
It's called _hide and seek_  for a reason. 

 

  
People hide. Someone seeks them out. The hiders try very hard not to be found. 

 

  
That's the whole point. 

 

  
So Tony should not be nervous. 

 

  
He absolutely should not be nervous because the whole point of the game is that the hiders, such as Peter, not be found by the seeker, Tony.

 

  
He shouldn't be nervous. 

 

  
But he is.

 

  
Because it's been over an hour of finding various Avengers hidden throughout the compound, and he hasn't even come close to finding Peter. 

 

  
He swore he wouldn't use Friday's help (because she, of course, could tell him exactly where everyone is) or otherwise "cheat" (how using a metal detector to find Bucky and Vision is 'cheating', Tony doesn't know). So he's stuck roaming the compound, checking increasingly sneaky places, growing increasingly worried when he doesn't see any signs at all of one very small spider kid. 

 

  
Tony found Sam first, because he was bickering with Wanda, who Tony made promise not to use mind control to make him forget about finding her. It took him a long time to find Bruce, only because he went to the lab expecting to find one of the spies or ex-assassins hiding cleverly there, and found Banner asleep at a desk. 

 

  
Steve was painfully easy, considering any and all of his practice in spontaneously hiding and seeking occurred when he was significantly smaller, so finding him in one of the many ( _many_ ) storage closets wasn't hard. 

 

  
Some how, some way, Clint found his way into the rafters of the training gym, and Tony seriously would've left without spotting him had the man, apparently bored, not thrown a tennis ball at the inventor. 

 

  
Tony thought that Natasha would have been the most difficult to find, all things considered. But she was just behind the island counter in the communal kitchen, legs crossed, munching on an apple (Tony heard the crunch). 

 

  
They explained to Vision before the game started that phasing through walls to escape the seeker is, in fact, cheating, but apparently he wasn't very dedicated to the game anyways, because after a while of having his discovered hiders following him around in his search, Tony turned around and saw Vision walking next to Wanda. 

 

  
The last person Tony found before Peter was Bucky, who thought it'd be funny to leap out and scare Tony after the billionaire passed him so many times. Luckily, no one else was around to see that, and after Tony threatened to murder Barnes with fire and vengeance (two seconds after leaping a foot in the air and all but screaming), the two made their way back to the group. 

 

  
Now it's just Peter. 

 

  
And Tony— he's a little nervous. 

 

  
By this point, all the other Avengers are helping search. Which is just making Tony _more_  nervous, because if the spies and assassins are having trouble locating one exceptionally small eight-year-old sized boy, then he's either hiding really, really well, or— 

 

  
Or, Tony doesn't even know what. 

 

  
So he keeps looking, growing steadily more frantic but sealing it in his head, avoiding the _looks_  that Natasha and Wanda ('pretty much' and 'literal' mind-readers) give him. 

 

  
Tony, ever one for self control, lasts another twelve and a half minutes before he asks Friday where the spider-ling is. 

 

  
After a horrifying pause, Friday informs Tony that Peter is in the pool. 

 

  
Of course, that sends a whole new rush of panic adrenaline through the inventor, and it takes every ounce of control he has not to sprint to the pool. 

 

  
When he gets in, definitely not bursting through the doors ~~like an overprotective parent~~ , he is both alarmed and comforted by the lack of small child in the water.

 

  
Calming some at the realization that Peter is not, in fact, drowning, Tony re-dedicates himself to finding the hiding boy. 

 

  
He opens up all the closest and counters, looking under and over and inside every piece of furniture in the pool. Peter's still nowhere to be found. 

 

  
Panicking all over again, Tony relents. 

 

  
"Alright, Pete, you win. Game over, you can come out now." He says loudly (hoping Peter can't hear the slight tremor in his voice). 

 

  
For a few moments, there's nothing. 

 

  
And then a muffled shuffling and something that sounds like a small boy murmuring to himself, and then Peter's popping out from a stack of towels on top of a tall closet. 

 

  
First is a mess of brown hair, and then hands and arms, and it takes Peter a grand total of sixty seconds to completely come out from behind the towels. 

 

  
When Tony's done gaping like a fish in shock, he approaches Peter slowly, eyebrows raised. 

 

  
"Pete, how— and I mean this in the nicest way possible— how the ever living _hell_  did you get up there?" Tony begins. He sounds in awe even to himself. 

 

  
Peter just beams at him, smiling that obscenely cute smile, all full of satisfaction and pride and excitement. 

 

  
"I stood on the other counters! You had to use Friday to find me, and then I came out on my own, so does that mean I win?" Peter answers all bubbly and wide-eyed like he hasn't just given Tony a long series of heart attacks. Like he wasn't just hiding behind a mountain of towels for over an hour. 

 

  
Tony rolls his eyes but can't help sighing in relief. 

 

  
"Ok, yeah, kid. You win. Now get down from there," he says, even as he's walking over to help. 

 

  
He ends up holding up his arms as Peter slides short legs off the closet, falling into Tony's grasp, the man's hands catching the boy under the armpits, so the inventor can lower him gently to ground level. 

 

  
Peter's feet are hardly planted on the tiled floor before he's practically bouncing with enthusiasm about having won. 

 

  
He's talking a mile a minute and describing every detail of his adventure as the ultimate hider, so wound up and downright gleeful, he probably doesn't notice the protective arm Tony slung over the boy's small shoulders. Tony nods along and listens, agreeing when Peter says he thought the adults would never find him, making the kid promise to never climb up on things when he can actually get hurt from falling. 

 

  
The rest of the Avengers, minus Vision and Wanda, are relaxing in the communal living room when Tony re-enters with Peter. 

 

  
"Way to go, Pete, you won," Bucky exclaims (or, what counts as an exclamation coming from him). Peter nods and skips up to him, climbing up where Bucky's sitting on the couch, and acting like monkey-ing his way onto Bucky's legs, planting his feet on the soldier's knees and standing up to ramble about his experience— is all perfectly natural and normal. 

 

  
Bucky's hands dart out and Peter braces himself against the soldier, very small palms pressed against much larger, more calloused hands, almost falling one way or another before Bucky rights his balance. Tony watches with a look of mixed amusement and confusion, but grins nonetheless. 

 

  
Natasha compliments Peter on his hiding skills, and his acrobatic abilities even as a non-powered child. The young boy preens with joy at her words, over the moon that a master of hiding and acrobatics would praise him on his antics. 

 

  
They stay clumped together in the living room for a while longer, mostly listening to Peter and telling him about their own 'adventures' of hiding (they embellish and exaggerate some, if only to entertain the kid's excitement). James Barnes takes no small amount of joy in telling an elaborate and, unfortunately, mostly accurate tale of how he scared Tony— which makes Peter almost fall off the man's knees with laughter. The inventor himself has to go into depth about his experience as the seeker, but, he doesn't mind that one. Peter seems thrilled. 

 

  
They almost decide to play another round, but then Peter starts yawning while listening to everyone else, swaying were he's standing on Bucky, and Steve softly asks the boy if he's tired.

 

  
Peter shakes his head, of course, but it's mid afternoon and he hasn't napped once today, after waking up early so Natasha could teach him yoga poses for the sunrise. He sways again and this time Bucky lets him gently fall forward, then tip back, until he's sunk down to sitting on Bucky's legs, heels digging into the couch cushion where his feet are on either side of the soldier. 

 

  
Peter manages to listen to everyone chatting for a little longer before his eyes get droopy. When he looks like he's about to start nodding off, Tony finally intervenes. 

 

"Ok, kiddo, think maybe you should lay down a while. We'll play a second round later, yeah?" The inventor offers. Peter just hums and blinks slowly, giving Tony a (precious) little grin. 

 

"M'kay," the boy whispers. Bucky smiles fondly, but let's Tony come up and lift Peter off the soldier's legs. The soldier scoots further down the couch, and so does Steve beside him, so that there's a nice expanse of cushion for Tony to softly lay Peter on. 

 

  
He curls up right away, head on Bucky's thigh, feet on Steve's lap. Sam drops a blanket over the small boy's back, giving Peter's shoulder a short few pats before leaving the room. 

 

  
Natasha and Clint make their way towards the hall, ready for the 'strategy talk' they've all been avoiding (it's boring, ok?), and wait for Tony to follow. The inventor ruffles Peter's hair, missing the fond expressions that Steve and Bucky give the boy thanks to his own focus on the kid. 

 

  
He shares brief eye contact and nods with the two soldiers, before joining the spies in the hall. 

 

When Peter wakes up and inevitably wants to take up that offer for round two, Tony's going to make sure he hides in a safe spot, preferably with his feet on the floor.

 

  
_Preferably_  just hiding with Tony, in a nice, harmless spot. But knowing Peter, the kid will probably slip away on his own, and send them on another ~~man~~ ~~boy~~ spiderling search. 

 

  
If (when) that happens—

 

  
Tony's just skipping straight to asking Friday. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, just in case you didn't see, this is the second chapter I've posted!! 
> 
> Hope you liked it <3


	14. Those Days pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is having one of Those Days. Thor delivers some news; comfort cuddles are required.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been almost two months. Big Yikes, sorry about that loves. My plan for Concentrated Capacity right now is that I’ll have this + part two, and maybe one or two more pointless fluff chapters, because that is what I Live For, and then a two or three part event with plot-ish things, and maybe another chapter or two of fluff/epilogue after that. Once all those are done I’m going to be marking this fic as completed, because I doubt I’ll be adding regular updates to it, but this is my happy place so just know that, more likely than not, I’ll still post additional chapters after marking it as complete— they just won’t be regular or frequent (or based off my pre-existing headcanons, as most every other chapter is)

Peter is having one of _those days_. The days where he’s a bit more affected by his child... _ness_ , and having a hard time with it. 

 

He woke up in the state, moving slowly into the kitchen for breakfast, Peggy (the bear) close to his chest, arms wrapped partly around himself. He had already pulled on some joggers and a t-shirt, though it seemed like the fact that they were (as all the clothes Tony ordered him) neutral colors didn’t stop him from feeling a little extra upset at the size. 

 

And dammit, he was already doing the _thing_ , with those big brown eyes and little pouty lip, looking like one wrong move or one small thing could snap his delicately structured composure and send him into a fit of confused tears. There isn’t a person in the compound who isn’t weak for that. The lost, fragile look, like the kid just needs a hug. 

 

He barely made it onto the kitchen tiles before Thor ( ~~the dick who dropped the bombshell of this situation and promptly fucked off to Asgard,~~ no, Tony’s not still a little bit bitter about that) was swooping down and lifting the boy into his arms. 

 

So now Tony is distracted, because Peter still looks two seconds from crying as he drinks a smoothie Bruce made, sitting next to Thor at the table, and also because the God’s biceps are literally bigger than Peter’s _head_. 

 

He takes a sip of too hot coffee and tries to keep his focus on his Stark-pad, on some contract or proposal or another that Pepper told him to “just read, Tony, it won’t kill you” with a smirk and a kiss before she left that morning, which he accepted the task of _before_  he realized that he might seriously die of boredom trying to get through. 

 

Thor is asking Peter questions about how he’s been doing, assuring him that all the mixed up emotions and lack of coordination and occasional distance from his teenager mindset are all perfectly normal.

 

And then Thor tells him, with that sympathetic grimace that makes it look like the thing he’s saying physically pains him, that restoration would occur during a certain phase of his body’s cycle through the box-shaped alien’s (what were they called? Jenga? Like the game, right?) plant-spell- _thingy_. That this particular phase is either when the plant wins out against his body and sends it through another cycle of remaining small and robbed of spider powers (or in Thor’s case… lightning), or when the body wins out against the plant, attacking it as a body would any virus and overcoming to return to his original state. 

 

(Filed under things Tony only half listened to Bruce explain that first day, distracted by the sound of a freshly miniaturized Peter in the kitchen.) 

 

And that if Peter hasn’t turned back by now, it’ll likely be another week or two before he does. 

 

Tony almost chokes on his coffee, because they thought they were nearing the _end_  of everything, but he immediately turns his attention to Peter. 

 

Peter, who looks like he’s still processing that. 

 

Peter, whose face suddenly falls, and eyes fill up with tears, who sinks into his chair and starts hyperventilating. 

 

Thor has his (massive) hands on Peter’s shoulders, trying to be reassuring, and Bruce comes around to rub the kid’s back, but Tony still gets out of his chair and goes around the table. 

 

As soon as he’s within range, Peter reaches out to him, latching onto Tony and pulling himself close to the billionaire. Not like the other wasn’t going to tug him in anyways. 

 

They stay there for a while, with Thor and Bruce both trying to give reassurance and comfort, until Tony’s back and knees object too much and he has to stand up properly. Peter doesn’t really want to let go, and for a moment the older man thinks he’s going to have to bring the kid back to his chair with him, but the boy releases his grip at the last second, slumping back into his seat. 

 

“Listen, Pete, hey, it’s alright. It’s not that long, and you’re getting the hang of it. I know you miss your aunt and your friends, and your, you know, teen-hood, but it’ll be over before you know it.” Tony tries to soothe, holding Peter’s face in his hands. 

 

It doesn’t work. The kid just starts crying all over again, stuttering out apologies, trying to say he’s fine and doesn’t know why he’s crying, though the meltdown says otherwise. 

 

“It’s ok to cry, Peter. It’ll help you feel better anyways. You’re basically sharing a brain and a body with a young child. It’s a lot to process,” Bruce offers softly. Peter nods and is probably attempting to say he understands, but the words barely get out between sobs.

 

It's far from the first time Tony's seen Peter cry, but it still tugs at his heart. 

 

“Young man of spiders, it is alright to feel distress. No one will blame you if you don’t fight it. I didn’t.”

 

Peter stills a little at Thor’s words, wiping furiously at his eyes and looking at the God with a confused, open expression. 

 

“Y-y-you d-did-dn’t?” Tony has to force himself not to coo at the image of Peter, sniffling away his persistent tears and trying to put on a brave face; make still his quivering lip.

 

(And, ah, that's right. Tony's number one challenger for receiver of Peter's hero worship is the God of Thunder himself. Throw in his science crush on Bruce and it should be a little easier to calm the kid down now.)

 

“Nope,” Thor responds, almost a perfect imitation of the way Natasha does it, popping the ‘p’ and all. “I did not. I allowed the effects to run their course. I am afraid that may be the source of your prolonged case, Peter. I imagine you have not often allowed yourself to follow the whims of the Jegne spell, correct?” 

 

(Jegne. Not Jenga. Got it. ~~Well, not really, but. That's probably irrelevant.~~ )

 

Peter just shrugs. Tony doesn’t blame him. The kid is most likely directing all control he has over motor functions into not crying again (more, really— he hasn’t exactly stopped). Thor nods in response and looks from Tony to Bruce. 

 

“To fight the spell is to agitate it. I apologize, this was not something I considered previously, but in my time away I have observed other, eh, victims of the Jegne, and seen those most objected frequently have the longest lasting effects. This is one of the reasons I returned, to inform you of, though not as soon as I would have hoped. Loki is… not one for the peaceful life. The last time I left him alone in Asgard, he tried to order the floors of our greatest halls to be painted with his face.” Thor lightens the blow of his news by quieting, offering Peter a playfully distressed look as he talks about his brother, making the kid giggle through his sniffling. 

 

But damn. That would’ve been nice to know a few weeks ago. Not about Loki being physically built of vanity and drama (they knew that already), but that Peter resisting whatever impulses and emotions his child-state has saddled him with has been aggravating the spell. 

 

It’s not like any of the adults urged him to suppress anything that doesn’t equate to teen-Peter (quite the opposite, actually), but they probably haven’t been the most encouraging. As in, everyone in the compound kind of loves having Peter as a child, and they indulge him, try to comfort him as they can, but they’ve been more supportive of him braving his condition than they have of him just _being_  in his condition. 

 

Not that it’s a ‘good’ thing, but. Allowing Peter to perceive it as a particularly _bad_  thing has, in hindsight, apparently been counterproductive.

 

Shit. Peter’s crying again. 

 

Tony watches it catch up to him, even as he’s trying to be amused by Loki’s antics, that not only is he stuck like this for even longer, but he probably thinks it’s his fault. 

 

The kid can’t even say anything, just starts sobbing once more, and Tony thinks the breakfast smoothie can wait a while. 

 

He reaches down and picks Peter up under the arms, lifting him into an embrace and hugging him tight. The boy wraps himself like a koala around his mentor, crying into Tony’s shoulder, Peggy hanging from one hand. 

 

Thor and Bruce follow Tony to the couch a little ways away, where the engineer maneuvers around Peter’s limbs to get the kid sitting sideways in his lap, still curled up against him. 

 

“Hey, shh, shh, you’re alright, kiddo. It’s ok.” It’s not, really, if the sobbing is anything to go by, but Tony keeps hushing and whispering assurances and Thor looks somewhere between wanting to do more to help and wanting to be anywhere but here. 

 

They have to sit for a while longer before Peter finally calms down. The sobbing eventually fades to hiccups and slow dripping tears that the kid is, after some time, able to keep up with wiping away. He shakes for a while but Tony just holds him tighter until the trembling stops. If Peggy was breakable, the kid probably would have squeezed the toy to death by the time he relaxes into Tony's embrace. But he gets there, slowly, cooling off and breathing deeply as Bruce counts for him. 

 

After a while of sitting quietly, the adults murmuring comfort as Tony gently rocks Peter, ever so subtly, the kid deems him self calmed enough to speak. Tony’s not surprised that the first thing he tries to do is apologize— which is exactly why the older man shuts it down. 

 

“I’m-” 

  
“Your next word better be anything but ‘sorry’, kiddo, because you have nothing to apologize for. It’s ok, Peter. It’s all ok.” He says quickly, and holds the boy tighter just to be sure. Peter looks like he wants to argue, but luckily, Thor steps in. 

 

“Would you like to know what I did while I was under the same spell you are, Peter?” 

 

The kid looks up, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, before sighing a little and nodding. Bruce pats Thor’s shoulder and gets up, moving for the table. 

 

“I used it to my advantage whenever I could. I assure you, young man of spiders, nothing in the nine realms will achieve you more desserts than the face of a child.” Thor says, and Peter laughs wetly at that. He immediately looks up to Tony, just as Bruce is returning with Peter’s forgotten breakfast.

 

“So we’re gonna have dessert every night then now, right?” The kid prompts. His face is a little blotchy and cheeks are highlighted by drying tears, eyes still red and gleaming, though the attempted smile likely means he won’t start crying again right now. The 'begging puppy' look he's going for works regardless. Tony smirks, anything for a distraction from what Peter probably thinks is catastrophic news. 

 

He takes the kid’s drink from Bruce and gives Thor a look for suggesting anything so manipulative before he looks down at Peter again, not really trying to suppress an amused grin.

 

“Drink your smoothie.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um ok so, anyone who knows how to work ao3, is there some way I can change this fic to be posted as Anonymous or under another pseud? Because it's... very, very different from my other works, and I feel like I've probably scarred a few poor souls who might've checked my account for stories similar to Concentrated Capacity. 
> 
> Anyways, thanks much for reading (sorry it took me a lifetime to post something), all my love to you <3


	15. Those Days pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team learns things. Aunt May learns things. More tears, more cuddles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting!! Twice!! In one day!! After two months of radio silence!! Crazy. This is a continuation of the same day/event from the last chapter. 
> 
> p.s. see last chapter's notes for the psa about the future of concentrated capacity, and also for, ya know... part one. :D

Peter takes a while to finish his smoothie, mostly because he has to keep pausing to blow his nose or giggle at some part of Thor’s stories. 

 

The god spends the next twenty minutes telling Peter tales that Tony isn’t sure are true but definitely could be, from his time reduced to a child by the plant spell.

 

Apparently he used it as an excuse to get Loki to play with him, as laying it on thick with the powerless child and puppy eyes got even his little brother (who was more like his big brother during that time) to give in. He would also torment people by hiding in spaces that regular sized Thor couldn’t dream of fitting in and jumping out to scare anyone unfortunate enough to walk past. 

 

Bruce and Tony toss in their two cents occasionally, mostly cynical or sarcastic commentary about the whether Thor is telling the truth or not, but Peter hangs on to every word.

 

Thor’s just finishing up a bit where he (allegedly) convinced Loki to make it look like he was levitating off the edge of a balcony with an illusion, but then somehow managed to actually fall off the edge and had to be rescued by his friend Heimdall, when Steve makes his way into the kitchen. 

 

Bucky and Sam follow shortly after, bickering about something but stopping when they see the scene on the couch. 

 

“Everything ok?” Steve asks, filling up a glass of water. Both Bruce and Thor look to each other, but Tony keeps relaxed. 

 

“Yeah, just listening to the God of that-can’t-be-real over here,” he quips. Thor dramatizes his offense to the comment, much to Peter’s amusement, and Bruce must mouth or hint something to the ex-soldiers from behind Tony, because they all nod in understanding, shooting glances at Peter. 

 

“I’ll have you know, Stark, that I speak nothing but the truth.” Thor states firmly. Tony just raises an eyebrow. 

 

“Mhm. Sure. I believe you.” 

 

“You could cut down on the sarcasm there, my friend.” 

 

“I’d rather not.”

 

Peter’s barely suppressed giggles catch Thor’s attention, and he looks to him with more mock offense. 

 

“What? Do you think this is funny?” 

 

The kid just nods, laughing more, and Thor gives him no time to prepare for the onslaught of tickling that follows. Peter shrieks and squirms, but Tony just holds him still and joins in, going for small ribs and armpits that can’t be protected from the attack. 

 

They back off after a moment and Peter scurries away, running over to Sam and hiding defensively behind him. Vaguely, Tony wonders if Sam is the only person in the room, other than Bruce, who hasn’t assaulted the kid with tickling before. 

 

“Hey, Pete, can you go get Natasha for us? She was supposed to come up here, too.” Steve asks. Peter nods, grinning, and narrows his eyes once more at Thor and Tony before scampering off down the hall. 

 

Once he’s out of earshot (something relatively impossible when he has his enhanced hearing), the three in the kitchen turn to the three on the couch. 

 

“What’s goin’ on?” Bucky asks. Tony sighs and looks to Bruce, then Thor, opting for one of the medically-aware or experienced God to answer. Banner, ever the champ, takes over.

 

“We just found out some more about Peter’s situation, and he’s not… taking it well.” He begins. That gets him the room's full attention. “Apparently, because Peter’s been so resistant to this whole experience, he’s agitated the, _plant_ , and increased the span of his condition. It’ll be another week or two, at least, and that’s if he stops fighting it right now.”

 

“Which means we need to make sure he stops fighting it.” Tony adds. It’s pointless to request that no one poke any fun at any of the childish things Peter does, because that already came to a screeching halt in the first week when everyone realized that they adored Peter acting like a kid (not that they’d say it to his face)(though, maybe they should, now, in light of recent events). 

 

“So, what, it’s like poking a bruise? The more you poke, the longer it lasts?” Sam tries to clarify. Thor nods. 

 

“Yes. And Peter has, metaphorically speaking, been poking the bruise far too much. Of course the effects will eventually wear off regardless, it’s not that strong of a spell, but it would be in his best interest not to aggravate the, em, bruise, any further.” The God confirms. Steve runs a hand through his hair. 

 

“Poor kid. Can’t imagine that was fun to hear.” 

 

Tony shakes his head, standing up with a flourish to retrieve his Stark-pad from the table where he left it. 

 

“Nope. Lots of tears, lots and lots of tears. Can’t say I’d feel any different, it’s been weeks since he actually spoke face-to-face with his aunt or his friends. Actually, you know what, I’m thinking now that he’s got up to another two weeks of this, we might want to tell aunt hottie. Friday, call Pepper for me.” He says, heading out of the room. He needs to ask his wife’s advice on this. 

 

And, maybe, possibly, also not be in the room when Peter comes back, because if he has to watch the kid cry any more this early in the morning (or rather, running on this little sleep), he might seriously try to adopt him, and that’s. That’s a whole different mess of emotions he’s not ready to crack into right now. 

 

*** 

 

As it turns out, Pepper already told May. 

 

Well, didn’t _tell_  her hell her, not everything, not until today, but she's known from the beginning that Peter’s not training. 

 

What Pepper said when everything first happened was that Peter was exposed to a non-harmful alien substance (true) on a non-dangerous mission (true), and that both to enhance his ability as an Avenger and to prevent accidentally exposing anyone else, he needs to stay at the tower until it’s cleared his system. 

 

Less true. 

 

She also told Mrs. Parker that because of the currently classified nature of the effects of the exposure and the work he’s doing at the compound, he’s not allowed to communicate with her in a live way, i.e., video or phone calls, and through promises of Peter’s physical and emotional security, plus Peter being able to text her right away, May was pacified. 

 

Even less true. 

 

But apparently, Pepper had met Thor earlier that morning, before Tony even made it to the kitchen, and he told her about the news he was there to deliver. 

 

And Pepper had called May on her way out. 

 

So now May knows everything and after finishing his call with Pepper, always two steps ahead of him, he is on the phone with Peter’s aunt. 

 

He talks to her, takes the ‘why didn’t you tell me’ spiel in stride with sympathy, and after weeks without genuine contact, Peter gets a phone call with May. 

 

He cries, of course, but May doesn’t immediately hop in a cab headed for the compound with any and everything she can carry to beat Tony to death with, because he and Pepper (and Bruce Banner, and Thor) assured her already that he’s crying because of the combo of emotional distress and attenuated capacity for coping, not because he’s hurt. 

 

Of course, she doesn't believe that until Peter calms enough to tell her. 

 

She probably didn't believe anything until she sees Peter face-to-face on the video-call they take shortly after.

 

Actually, unless she comes to the compound (which Tony's not sure would be a good idea, bringing a civilian there, but they could always find a middle ground. Some place not overly classified enough that May would be allowed no problem, but secure enough to keep Peter safe, but controlled and familiar enough not to overwhelm him. Tony's already making a list.)

 

Peter’s on the phone with May for almost the entire day. 

 

He tells her about what he’s been up to, and she tells him what she’s been doing, and he cries some more, and she comforts him more, and they agree that he should stay at the compound (not that there were any other options, but, thank god (Thor? Odin?) they don't need to have that conversation), and she offers to come see him, and the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon are filled with various Avengers randomly spotting Peter pacing throughout the compound, gesturing animatedly and talking about something new every time. 

 

It’s cute. It kind of makes Tony’s heart hurt. It kind of makes him happy, too. 

 

Tony stays cooped up in his lab most of the day and misses dinner. But that's not exactly weird.

 

When he finally comes out, he sees Peter passed out in Bucky’s lap in one of the living room arm chairs, Barnes reading something around the small body in front of him. Sam is sleeping on the couch, face buried in a pillow, and Tony wonders where Natasha’s been. 

 

Apparently Bruce and Thor told Nat, Wanda and Vision (and Clint, though that was over a secure line, because he isn't actually here right now), but Tony must've been in the lab or otherwise somehow missed that happening. 

 

He checks the time on the stove top clock and it makes his eyebrows raise in surprise. 

 

“Steve hasn’t come and hauled him off to bed yet?” He asks. He grabs a glass of water and praises the water Gods. Maybe they’re friends with Thor. 

 

Bucky just smirks and puts the book down. 

 

“He was waiting for you to get out of your workshop, actually.” The man says softly. The movement of him setting his book on nearby end table shifts him around, and Peter makes a soft sound in his sleep, curling further in against Bucky. Tony can’t stop himself from smiling a little.

 

Bucky rubs Peter’s shoulder, tapping a little. “Hey, Pete, Tony’s up now. You really gotta go to bed, buddy.”

 

Tony sighs and walks over to them, just as Peter’s lifting his head, rubbing his eyes. 

 

“Come on, kid, that’s it, up you get,” he says quietly. Tony’s hands come around under the kid’s arms and Peter seems to register the new warmth, humming in content as he leaves the comfort of Bucky to be carried to bed. 

 

Tony walks them to Peter’s room slow enough to keep an even step, avoiding jostling the kid around too much. He’s just starting to lay the boy down on his bed when Peter suddenly looks up at him. 

 

“Mi’er Star’?” The mumble is barely audible but it’s enough to make Tony pause. 

 

“Yeah, Pete?” He finishes laying the kid down and pulls the blankets over him, to Peter’s approval if the grateful hum is any indication, but he waits for the rest of whatever the boy wants to say.

 

It takes a few seconds before he sighs and opens his mouth again. 

 

“‘m sorry.” 

 

Tony frowns. “What for, kid? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

 

Peter looks sad at that and curls in on himself a little. 

 

“‘cause I made the ‘pell longer ‘n’ now you have to deal wi’ me for even more… ‘m sorry, don’ wanna bother you,” and the kid almost looks like he’s going to continue, tears welling up in his eyes, so Tony does the only thing he can think of and leans over, wrapping his arms around the boy once more. 

 

“Hey, none of that. It’s- you’re not- you’re not a bother, Peter. We don’t have to “deal with you”, we like having you around, kid. Doesn’t matter if you’re a regular spiderling teenager or like this. We like you, ok, I like you, Peter. You’re good company. Besides, I think having child-you around these last few weeks has been good for everyone.” He pauses to pull back and look Peter in the eyes, make sure he remembers this next bit no matter how tired he is. “You’re good for us, kiddo. Always. Everyone likes having you here, including me.”

 

He stops again, then gives what he hopes is an affectionate grin and pushes a tuff of messy hair away from Peter’s wet eyes. “Especially me. Ok?”

 

Peter doesn’t say or do anything but sniffle and search Tony’s face, for any sign of doubt or annoyance, anything less that genuinity. 

 

All he finds is bona fide fondness, and it shows in the relief on in his expression when he relaxes back. 

 

“Ok.” His voice is a little choked up and soft, but that’s alright. Tony grins at him and messes up the hair he just fixed for good measure. 

 

“Ok. And if you ever get worried about bothering anybody again, tell me, alright? I don’t ever want you to doubt how we, I, feel about you, pipsqueak.” 

 

Peter giggles a little at that, but his eyes must be too heavy for it to last, because he just sniffles again and nods. 

 

“Ok, Tony.” 

 

Tony smiles at him. This kid, he thinks. 

 

“Goodnight, Pete.” He says quietly, backing off but not leaving his seat on the edge of the bed. Peter looks like he takes comfort in that, smiling sleepily and turning over to pull Peggy and one of his pillows into a loose snuggle. 

 

“Night,” 

 

Tony stays, gently rubbing Peter’s shoulder and back, if only for a few minutes. That’s all it takes for the kid to fall asleep, and Tony sighs, the feeling in his chest that’s growing familiar overcoming him. 

 

He doesn’t think twice about planting a soft kiss to Peter’s permanent bedhead and leaves the door cracked open. Just a little. 

 

Maybe this, helping Peter to accept his condition completely, _convincing_  him that it’s ok for him to be a kid, won’t be so difficult after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you liked it, more chapters to come soon before another two months go by!! 
> 
> p.p.s. if anyone knows anything about the request in the last chapter's end notes, please help. I am but a poor author who knows not how to navigate this site.


	16. Sick Boy Again, But This Time ft. Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has an upset stomach and Bucky has 'pre-serum Steve' experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think about this fic constantly, I just haven’t been in The Mood that I have to be in to properly write this softness. Here’s a chapter of hurt/comfort fluff before we get to the Plotty Event, bc my monkey brain is fixated on sickfics and I need more Peter & Bucky in my life
> 
> Thanks v much for stickin’ with me, hope you like it <3

For the first few seconds after Peter wakes up, he isn’t sure _why_ he’s awake. 

 

And then, very suddenly, he realizes the nausea in the pit of his stomach, and his neck and back are way too hot, and he’s kicking at the blankets to get them off. 

 

He stumbles out of his too-big bed and runs to the bathroom connected to his room, barely making it to the toilet before he’s convulsing. The first time his stomach lurches, it takes him to his knees, upper body curling over the porcelain bowl and breathing heavy. The second time, he feels his throat opening up the way that only means— 

 

It burns and tastes awful, and man, Peter hasn’t puked in _years_. It smells terrible, too, and he hates the sound that comes out of him. He reaches up and immediately flushes the toilet, trying to breathe deeply but pretty sure he’s hyperventilating. 

 

He doesn’t feel even remotely better after throwing up, still nauseous, stomach heaving, but nothing comes up for another minute. Peter vaguely notices that Friday must have turned the bathroom lights on for him, because they’re glowing dimly, bright enough that his non-enhanced eyes can see everything but not too bright to irritate him. 

 

“Peter, would you like me to call someone to come help you?” Friday offers. Peter wants to say yes, of course he does, but then he thinks about how late, or early, it must be, and he doesn’t want to bother anyone. 

 

That, and Mr. Stark is away tonight. Peter thought it was supposed to be SI business, since he was originally going with Pepper, but then Steve went with him instead, so it might actually have something to do with the Avengers. 

 

Either way, Tony’s really the only person Peter would feel entirely comfortable waking up to come take care of him, and since Mr. Stark isn’t here, he’s not too keen on Friday calling one of the adults in. 

 

“N-no thank you, I’m f-fi-,” Peter stutters, but he’s barely said the words when he’s heaving over the again, stomach clenching twice before emptying what he prays is the rest of its contents. 

 

He hears Friday’s calming voice speaking to him but he doesn’t pick up on any of the words, too focused on flushing the toilet again and crying at the acid burning his throat and mouth. He feels terrible and he’s not even sure what’s causing it. He didn't eat anything he shouldn't have, right? And there's no way he could get food poisoning at the freaking _Avengers compound_. 

 

He’s sweating through his pajama shirt and the cold seat of the toilet is soothing against his arms and forehead, but the water inside smells weird and he’s too nervous to move, stuck breathing with his head half way in the bowl. 

 

It can only be a few minutes before his bedroom door is opening, and his tummy has barely settled at all when footsteps trod lightly into the bathroom. 

 

“Pete?” Comes Bucky’s worried voice. 

 

Peter just groans in confirmation, hoping the older man doesn’t turn on the lights any brighter. 

 

“Oh, buddy,” Bucky says, and Peter can hear the way his voice falls. The soldier walks up to him quickly, kneeling beside the small boy and putting an arm around his shoulders. 

 

“How you doin’, Pete? You done?” He asks. Friday probably already told him that Peter was throwing up, and even if she didn’t the man can probably tell just by looking at the kid sitting with his face in a toilet. 

 

“N-no, I-I don’ really f-feel too great,” Peter mumbles, and he’s shaking where he’s slouched, his stomach churning and his jaw hurts. He knows, logically, that slow, deep breathing will help, but he can’t stop from hiccuping, tears escaping his eyes as his chest hitches. How is this so _uncomfortable_ ? How is it possible to feel this _awful_ without being in actual pain? 

 

“Ok, kiddo, alright, I’m gonna get you some things to help. I’ll be right back,” Bucky says softly, giving Peter’s shoulders a gentle squeeze. He disappears then, hustling out of the bathroom, and Peter groans miserably into the ceramic bowl. 

 

He sniffles and crying definitely isn’t helping, his twitching diaphragm only upsetting his stomach all the more. 

 

His back is already starting to ache but he genuinely can’t change positions, too afraid of pushing himself over the edge again to shift even the smallest bit. 

 

Bucky returns a short while later, and Peter wonders if he or Friday have woken anyone else up. He hopes not, though, he can’t lie, as gross as he feels, the older man is a big comfort. He forgets himself and sits up a little to look at the soldier, seeing the bundle of cloth under his arm and the tall plastic cup in the other, but the consequences of motion are instant. 

 

Before either of them can say anything else, Peter’s retching again, the god-awful tensing in his belly prior to puking. It’s even more disgusting with another person watching him, but he really can’t even care, just crying and desperately wanting to lean into the touch when Bucky puts a hand on his back. 

 

“That’s it, you gotta let it out, Pete, you’ll feel better once you get it out of your system,” Bucky soothes. He rubs Peter’s back with one hand and sets down the rest of his bundle with the other, moving around but staying close enough to keep contact with Peter. 

 

The boy appreciates it, he really does, but he doesn’t have the time to say between dry heaving and harsh sobs. He loses his dinner (presumably) again a few seconds later, and after four goes, it seems like his stomach is finally (thankfully) empty, for real this time. 

 

A very, very delicate relief settles over him, and he instantly feels so much better, but it's only with that fragile knowledge that if he does anything to aggravate his body then he’ll be hit with nausea again. 

 

“Ok, ok, there you go, I know it sucks, kid, but you’re ok,” Bucky hushes. He pets Peter’s hair and rubs his arms and back gently, hands heavy and grounding but not too firm. Peter reaches up to flush but Bucky stops him, closing the distance himself and sending the last of the sick down the drain. 

 

Peter swallows thickly. His mouth feels gross and his throat hurts, and his tummy aches from how violently it rejected whatever the hell it was that made his body freak out. 

 

Bucky keeps touching his hair and shoulders until he’s calmed mostly down, too exhausted to fight the tears and hence easing some of the tension from his stomach. Then a glimmering metal hand is holding out the tall red plastic cup towards Peter, and the small boy eyes it warily. 

 

“Come on, you need to drink something. At least rinse your mouth out,” Bucky tells him. Peter agrees that it’s a good idea, and though he’d rather brush his teeth (and rinse with mouthwash, and then repeat both of those steps a few more times) he knows the strong mint would not do him any favors. 

 

He moves slowly, lethargically, moving his torso as little as possible as he takes the cup. 

 

The water is lukewarm and that’s nice, because cold water would have been evil and upsetting. He does nothing but swish and spit for a few gulps, then takes a couple tiny, tentative sips, giving himself a good ten seconds between each before he’s brave enough to take a proper mouthful of water. 

 

“Atta boy, you feeling any better?” Bucky asks once Peter’s finished the cup, having been rubbing the boy’s back the entire time. Peter nods his head shortly, because yes, this terrifying and exhaustively delicate state _is_ better than when he was actually vomiting. 

 

“Alright, here. Let’s get you cleaned up and a little more comfortable. Sound good?” The man offers. Peter nods again. He’s still sniffling and crying a bit but now he’s very, very tired, and he knows he’s not supposed to be fighting the child hormones and instincts anymore, so he has no objections at all when Bucky cautiously helps him out of his sweat (and very possibly puke-)-stained t-shirt and towels off the extra perspiration from Peter’s back and neck. 

 

Bucky carefully pulls a fresh, clean shirt over him, then fetches another cup full of slightly-cooler-than-room-temp water. 

 

Peter takes this one the same way he did the first, slow and nervous and nearly falling asleep on the spot. Bucky puts a cool, damp washcloth on the back of his neck and wipes his cheeks and forehead and mouth with another, making sure the flush the toilet another time after Peter spits more water into the bowl. 

 

He doesn’t know what time it is. He doesn’t have the energy to ask Friday, either, but it’s probably irrelevant. The point is that he wants desperately just to sleep, and he feels like he’s cramping up, but he’s still too scared to move at all, let alone be more than a foot away from the bathroom. 

 

When Peter thinks the worst has officially past, though he doesn’t dare assume he couldn’t possibly puke any more, Bucky brings him a tiny chew tablet. It tastes like artificial grape but it makes his stomach calm entirely and he feels a lot less shaky after a just a few seconds, sighing deeply and rubbing his eyes. 

 

“Sleepy, buddy?” Bucky prompts with a gentle smile. Peter nods. 

 

“Wanna go back to your bed?” 

 

Peter shakes his head. He’s still scared he might be sick again. 

 

Bucky nods, because that’s ok, which is nice. He leaves and for a minute Peter thinks he’s gone back to his own room, but then he’s back with a throw blanket, wrapping it around Peter’s shoulders and gently, slowly, carefully prying the boy away from the toilet.  


“You’ll get cramps slouchin’ over that the whole night,” the soldier explains. Peter almost whimpers at being taken away from his safe spot, but then Bucky pulls him into his lap, and Peter’s knees slip to either side of the man, pressing his chest leveled with Bucky’s steadily beating heart, and his head rests perfectly in the crook of Bucky’s neck. It’s incredibly comfortable and pleasantly warm, not anything like the way Peter was burning up before. 

 

“Better?” The man asks. Peter hums in confirmation, cuddling in closer. Friday dims the lights until they’re almost off. 

 

“Thanks a lot, Bucky. Sorry you had to watch me puke ‘n’ stuff,” he mumbles softly, bottom lip pouting slightly with guilt. Bucky just huffs, wrapping his arms around Peter and the blanket, a heavy, solid embrace that feels stable and soft and good. 

 

“It’s no problem, Pete. Happens to everybody. Used to happen to Steve all the time.” The older man says lightly. Peter makes a sound that must resemble confusion, because Bucky elaborates. “Steve was always sick before he got that serum, and when we were kids, I’d be sitting with him while he was puking up his whole stomach at least once a month. It’s not even gross to me anymore, kid. Besides,” he pauses and turns his head, pressing a soft, incredibly paternal kiss to the top of Peter’s head, “‘m glad I could help you feel better.” 

 

The story about Steve getting sick too makes Peter feel a lot less awful, and he lets out a long breath, pressing his face into Bucky’s shirt. It smells faintly but distinctly of laundry detergent and it’s soothing, actually, not making his tummy twist up at all. 

 

“You and Steve are so much alike, you know,” Bucky says, probably sensing that his quiet words were calming to the kid. “Stubborn knuckle-heads, firstly, but full ‘a heart. And strong. Even before the whole ‘captain america’ thing, and even without your spider powers. You’re both strong as hell. It’s kinda intimidating, actually.” 

 

Peter can’t help giggle wetly at that, smiling and sniffling one more time, humming in appreciation. Bucky grins and rocks them side to side, slow and slight and cautious of the little boy’s stomach, whispering stories of scrawny Steve's adventures, until the kid falls asleep. Friday keeps the lights on dim and Bucky keeps swaying, rubbing Peter’s back and breathing so his lungs and heartbeat have a steady rhythm for Peter to listen and cling to. 

 

It’s not that uncomfortable, leaning against the wall of the bathroom next to a toilet that still smells very remotely of vomit, thanks to a super-enhanced nose, having the warmth and weight of little Peter on his lap, snuggled against him. There’s a relaxing heat to it and Bucky feels oddly safe, here, in this position, regardless of the unfortunate circumstances. 

 

His spine is at kind of a weird angle and he’s sitting up but he’s so surprisingly content that he falls asleep too. 

 

* * *

 

Steve and Tony get back late. 

 

So late, in fact, that the sun will probably start rising in an hour or so. 

 

Needless to say, they’re both concerned when Friday tells them as soon as they walk into the compound that Peter is sick and sleeping in his _bathroom_ with Bucky. 

 

Tony walks ahead of them as they make their way quickly to the boy’s room, and Friday turns up the lights just enough for them to swing open the door to the restroom. 

 

And there, in the back, sitting right next to the toilet, are Bucky and Peter. The kid is passed out in the solider’s lap and Bucky’s head is resting on top of the boy’s, his own eyes closed. After a few seconds of Steve and Tony standing there, enhanced hearing (or maybe just intuition) alerts Bucky to their presence, and he slowly starts to wake up. 

 

Tony gives him a look, something fond and amused and still slightly worried, so when both men approach the two on the floor, Bucky looks up at them reassuringly and says he was puking earlier but has been sleeping soundly since two. 

 

Steve just watches as Bucky carefully lifts Peter off of himself and into Tony’s arms, the billionaire taking the kid and his blanket slowly and cradling him like precious cargo. When he looks back to his friend, Bucky is running a hand through his hair, grinning a small smile. 

 

“Think I’ve gone soft,” he says quietly. Steve smirks, offering him a hand and pulling the other man to his feet. When they’re level, he throws one arm over Bucky’s shoulders, patting the man’s chest, still warm from Peter’s body. 

 

“You’ve always been soft, Buck.” 

 

The other soldier just rolls his eyes and smiles, not bothering to argue. They leave the bathroom together, in time to see Tony gently laying Peter down on his mattress, arranging blankets, placing the plastic cup of water on the side table and setting his little trash can next to the bed. Tony’s pushing the kid’s hair off his face and leaning against the frame, looking like he’s staring at the whole world, so Steve and Bucky decide to let him say goodnight on his own. 

 

They should all be getting to bed, anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I write this way too late at night? Mayhaps. <3


	17. Unfriendlies pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite popular belief, there are a few things that Tony Stark, Iron Man, is afraid of. This is one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus begins… the angst event. 
> 
> This is exceptionally short but I promise pt. 2 (which I’ll post within a day or two) will be much longer. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: mentions/descriptions of blood, injury; implied kidnapping
> 
> PSA that this sequence of chapters will contain SPOILERS for Spider-Man: Far From Home (by reference/similarities, obviously this is Not canon compliant at all lol)

Tony can’t breathe. 

 

Of course this was a fucking  _ trap _ . 

 

Steve returned the infinity stones that the Avengers used to save everyone back to their rightful respective timelines ages ago, and all six stones from their reality were destroyed by Thanos after his first snap back in 2018. 

 

They should have known those readings were false. 

 

They should have fucking  _ known _ . 

 

Instead, the moment the radiation (that signal they’re all  _ so familiar _ with seeking out) showed up on their radar, supposedly infinity stones, in use on Earth, everyone available had suited up. 

 

Obviously they did consider that it was a false alarm. That might not be real. That even if it was, they should only have to send a few people to check out the scene, recon at the most. 

 

But that knowledge, that horrible fear of what it would mean if somehow this was Thanos, or anyone  _ like  _ Thanos, what it would take to combat a force like that or the power of the stones, provoked them into entering total panic mode. The only people back at the compound are Peter and Rhodey (and Happy, of course). 

 

Pepper is in Hong Kong for an SI meeting. (Tony wouldn’t want her here anyways.) Officially, Stephan Strange, Wanda, and Vision are in the Himalayas near Kamar-Taj, but Tony’s pretty sure they’re actually in a different universe right now. Scott is back in San Francisco, Loki and Thor are with the fucking guardians of the galaxy for some reason, and Carol is probably on the other side of the galaxy right about now. 

 

The point is that the Avengers are down their most magical and overpowered members, and Tony can’t  _ fucking breathe _ . 

 

Of course when they got to the completely irrelevant, unextraordinary field in Austria they found exactly zero signs of infinity stones or villains anywhere. Of course the only thing there besides the long grass and wildflowers, the only thing out of place, was a little transmitter box. A small transmitter that Tony blows a hole through before immediately channeling all the power he has to spare into rocket launching his ass back to New York. 

 

_ Fuck _ .

 

He tries to contact Rhodey first and gets nothing but radio static. Then he calls Happy every ten seconds of his flight, hearing but not listening to Natasha trying to calm him in his ear in between calls. 

 

There’s no answer. 

 

He asks Friday what the hell is going on at the compound and she says her systems have been shut down. She can’t access any video or audio feeds, she can’t use any scans or sensors, she can’t even check her grid to see what’s using power or where. She’s completely locked out. 

 

Natasha is counting in Tony’s ear as his body somehow continues to remain conscious, despite the fact that he feels like he hasn’t taken a single breath since they landed the jet (which he promptly abandoned with the rest of the Avengers) in Europe. All he can think about is the kid. 

 

_ Peter _ . 

 

Systems are down, contacts are silent. Two of his best friends and his surrogate son are back there and he has no way to make sure they’re ok, which is a million times worse when all the goddamn context clues make him certain that they’re in danger. He’s blind and deaf and why the fuck didn’t they leave Bruce or Sam or Bucky or anyone else there?! 

 

Tony keeps calling Happy and Rhodey while Friday has to hack herself to get back into the compound’s mainframe. When she does make it in, Tony has barely begun to coordinate his mouth to speak before she’s telling him she doesn’t have any video or audio footage of anything from the past hour. From quiet and calm to quiet and calm, but the time in between has obviously been anything else, because Friday pulls up an image of the safety bunker and Rhodey is there, in his War Machine armor, lying unmoving on the ground. 

 

“Vitals are stable, sir, but it appears his suit has been shut down.” Friday says. Tony breathes. Rhodey is ok. 

 

His AI is working on unlocking Rhodey’s armor and connecting a call with his friend when she is finally able to show him Happy. 

 

Tony sees red. 

 

Literally. Happy is in the kitchen, and he’s sitting up, one arm clutching his shoulder, looking like he’s breathing hard, blood staining his clothes and smeared on his hands and the floor. 

 

“Happy!” Tony shouts. Speakers and coms must be back online, because the man jolts and then grimaces at the movement, but he doesn’t even open his eyes to register that he’s on a call via AI before replying. 

 

“Tony, they,” a groan, “Peter, you gotta-” it looks like breathing is highly difficult for the man but Tony doesn’t need to hear any more. 

 

“Ok, ok, hang on Hap, Friday-“ 

 

“Already on it, boss.”

 

The relief at knowing a med team is on their way to Happy is strong, but only for a moment. 

 

“What happened, Happy, where is Peter?” Tony asks through the coms. Friday’s not picking up any signs of the kid. She’s double and triple and quadruple checking without needing to be asked and there are no child-sized readings coming through. Happy groans again and Tony wants to drop whoever did this off a fucking cliff (and then some). 

 

“Tony!” Rhodey’s voice patches into his helmet and Tony almost cries. 

 

“Rhodey thank fuck, Happy’s in the kitchen, he’s bleeding bad from his shoulder, med team is on the way. The others are coming back in the jet, I’m in my suit, be there in-“ he checks his flight path, “fifteen. It was a trick, Rhodey, the signal was fake. What the fuck happened?” 

 

An image shows Rhodey rushing up from the bunker towards Happy. There’s still no sign of Peter anywhere and Tony thinks he’s going to puke. Friday’s already relaying the conversation to the others, adding them into the call. She must send them video, too, because there are audible gasps that probably mark the rest of the team seeing Happy bleeding on the linoleum tiles.

 

“It was a trap, Tony, it was a fucking trap. They knocked out the whole compound. They have  _ Stark tech _ , man, and they know how to use it.” Rhodey pants, making it to the kitchen and disengaging his suit, kneeling in front of Happy. 

 

Tony’s stomach drops. He couldn’t puke anymore if he wanted to. He can’t even breathe, it’s like he’s going to pass out. The beeping that’s supposed to tell him to slow his heart rate morphs into one long ring in his ears. 

 

“They have Edith, they got the- and they-" a grunt, "they took Peter, Tony, they-they _took him_ ," Happy coughs and even in Friday’s less than incredible video feed, Tony can see the blood on his lips. Happy’s words and his own erratic heartbeat pound in his head. Edith. Peter. _Peter_.

 

Realization sets in with the force of a nose-diving airliner, and then Tony's vision whites out completely. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably going to have four parts to this? Is what I’m thinking? I’ll try to post them all soon. 
> 
> (wow these are the shortest notes ever. Yay for me.)


	18. Unfriendlies pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go very downhill very fast. Peter wishes more than anything that he could be Spider-Man again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s where this melting pot of fluff and headcanons earns “canon similarities”. Introducing some slimy scumbag and his greek chorus. I had to make every part of this concise or the “Unfriendlies” mini series would’ve been over 20k, so :/ 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: **SPOILERS** for Spider-Man: Far From Home, mildly graphic depictions of blood + injury, kidnapping, our narrator is essentially 8 years old and also terrified, so mind those things.

Peter’s half asleep, somehow, despite feeling keyed up all over. Sitting on the living room couch and leaning against Happy’s side, the both of them waiting for Rhodey to come back in. 

 

Mr. Stark and the other avengers left early in the afternoon for Europe. Peter’s pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to hear anything about it, but they were panicking and they’re less careful when they panic, and he caught “readings” and “stones” and “Thanos”, and Peter can connect the dots. 

 

He knows there’s a threat. Part of him wants to help, wants to do something to aid his fellow heroes, wants to have  _ some  _ kind of effect or input in this, but logically he‘s well aware that he can’t do shit right now.

 

He’s not even four feet tall or fifty pounds. He’s pint sized and he has to nap at least once a day not to get so tired that he’s crabby, and if he drops something and it makes a loud noise, even if it doesn’t actually break, he still cries. 

 

He isn’t strong or sticky or acrobatic, and his spider suit has that shrink-to-fit aspect but he doubts it would shrink  _ this  _ much. 

 

So he waited, (im)patiently with Happy and Mr. Rhodes for word from the Avengers. They kept trying to tell him that everything is fine and that he doesn’t have anything to worry about.

 

But if that was true, Iron Man and Captain America and Black Widow and the Hulk and Hawkeye and the Falcon and the Winter Soldier wouldn’t all be in Europe together right now. 

 

So Peter had sat anxiously, trying to humor Happy and Rhodey’s attempts at getting him to watch cartoons or use the tablet Mr. Stark gives him, to talk to his friends or “do kid things”. He was just giving in to the offer for a snack when suddenly the lights turned off. 

 

Which isn’t the worst thing in the world, but when they’re waiting for news on the infinity stones, it’s a little unnerving. 

 

What’s actually scary is that Friday stopped responding. 

 

Even during a power outage, even if the backup to the backup for power goes out, Friday stays online because she’s connected to a different system entirely. 

 

Happy tried to call Tony but all he got was radio static. The three of them were significantly more freaked out (though the adults tried not to show it) when they realized all forms of communication were out, but for another twenty minutes, nothing happened. The systems didn’t come back online, Peter ate a banana, and neither Happy nor Rhodey could get a signal. 

 

Eventually Rhodey decided to go outside with his War Machine suit to see what was going on, check out the surrounding area and figure out if the loss of signal was just around the compound. Maybe he could patch through to Tony if he flew a little ways away.

 

So Happy and Peter are waiting for him to get back. They're waiting very, very patiently. Except that's a lie and they're actually waiting very impatiently, and Peter skipped the nap today (how could he possibly sleep when all of this is happening?) so he’s pretty tired, but he can’t even think about resting. He keeps looking out the windows and doors, trying to crane his neck as much as he can without leaving Happy’s side, watching for signs of Rhodey.

 

He gets one when the man comes barreling through the door. 

 

“Downstairs. Safe room. Now.” 

 

Peter’s eyes go wide and he starts rambling off a million questions a second as Rhodey and Happy usher him down the steps. 

 

“What’s going on? What’s happening? Mr. Rhodes why do we have to go in the safe room?” Peter’s so freaked out that his eyes start to water, and he’s tripping over his own feet so much trying to keep up with the older men that after only a few hallways and one set of stairs Rhodey picks him up and carries him. 

 

“Potentially unfriendly people are pulling up to the compound and I don’t trust that without Friday online. So we’re going in here until we know that there’s nothing wrong, ok?” Mr. Rhodes explains as they approach the bunker. The safe room, at least, seems online, if the illuminated keypad says anything about it. Peter shakes his head, because that doesn’t sound like even forty percent of the truth, but Rhodey sets him down in front of the door. 

 

There’s a banging sound upstairs that makes Peter’s blood run cold. It feels like his heart stops beating entirely but he can hear it pounding in his ears. 

 

Rhodey punches in the key and the door unlocks, but he barely manages the “get” of what was probably meant to be “get inside” or “get behind me” before  _ something _ blows them all apart. 

 

Peter goes flying towards a door, one of many back entrances to the under story of Tony’s workshop, Happy gets slammed into a wall, and Rhodey is launched into the safe room. There’s whirring sounds and Peter’s head spins, but he can very clearly hear Happy shouting at him to run, so he scrambles to his feet and pushes open the door of the lab. 

 

He looks back to make sure Happy is following him, but the man is still yelling. 

 

“Go, Peter! Go now! Go!” 

 

Eyes wide and terrified, Peter is about to protest and run back, but another wave of whatever the hell that blast was that knocked them back the first time hits again. There’s a terrible metallic scraping and muffled cursing that must be Rhodey, and Happy lets out a shout and gets pushed against the wall  _ hard _ . 

 

The blow knocks Peter back and he stumbles through the door, and Happy’s still yelling at him to run, so he does. Logic tells him he can’t do anything to help if he’s getting tossed against walls by whatever the invaders have, and he bolts into the workshop. 

 

There’s no light other than the slits of windows at the tops of the ceiling and the glow from whatever battery powered machines are still running. The door slams closed heavily behind him and sounds become muffled, but the banging and shouting still float through. 

 

The first thought Peter has is to run for his suit. The second is that his suit is still locked away, and the third is that with the power and Friday out, he might be able to break into the part of the lab he’s been shut away from for the last few weeks. 

 

He runs for it, tripping and stumbling until he almost collapses against the glass and tugs on the door. It actually opens and Peter almost cries with relief. His suit is in its glass cover, but he pulls the heavy window back with a groan and looks over the red and blue spandex. 

 

He won’t be able to wear it. It won’t fit. There’s no way it will fit his body when he’s two feet shorter and less than half his weight. 

 

But his web shooters might work. 

 

He snatches them from the sleeves, slams the cover back down, and makes a b-line for the stairs to the upper level of the workshop. His shoulders hurt from being blown around by that thing, whatever it was, but he hardly notices in the adrenaline rush.

 

The web shooters slip easily onto his little wrists but he’s shaking so much that it’s hard to tighten them, though he eventually gets them on and tucks them under the cuffs of his hoodie. Breathing is only getting more difficult and each inhale rattles in his chest, a panicked-rabbit pace that picks up as he trips on the stairs to the second floor and hears the lab door opening. 

 

“Find that fucking kid so we can get out of here!” 

 

Peter can’t stop a terrified sob from wracking out of him at the words, and he starts to run. He doesn't even think about his footsteps or being subtle, all he can think of is getting out, hiding someplace safe. 

 

He wishes Tony was here. Jesus christ, he wants Tony. 

 

“Up there!” Someone shouts from the lower level. Peter trips as he’s approaching the last back door before the main workshop, knocking into a piece of equipment and falling over. Scrambling to his feet again  _ hurts _ but there’s no time to care. 

 

The vigilante hero part of him is hoping whoever these people are are distracted by him and he can lead them away from Happy and Rhodey. 

 

The probably-not-even-eight year old child part of him is too terrified to think about anything but getting away from the people chasing him. 

 

Peter makes it to the lab door and yanks it open, whipping himself around and pushing it closed just as two men coming running up the stairs. There’s a wrench on a bench next to him and he barely processes a thought before he puts it between the door handle and the wall, stepping back and turning. 

 

Rattling sounds tell him that the men made it to the door and the wrench thing worked, but the clanging is so aggressive it just sparks him to move faster. There’s almost no light in here but Peter knows the room, ducking behind one of the work tables and climbing into the space under the counter’s surface. It’s small and he has to frantically tug a box out, kicking it away from the table and praying it looks nonchalant as he curls up in the space. 

 

He’s just hugged his knees to his chest when the wrench is knocked away and the door yanked open, the shouting and footsteps of the two men entering the workshop. 

 

“Where’d he go?”

 

“I can’t see anything in here,” 

 

“Look around, he could be hiding.” 

 

“Or maybe he ran out,” 

 

“Just look, would you?!”

 

Peter holds his breath. He tries to make himself as small as possible and squeezes his eyes shut, doing everything he can not to make any sounds at all. 

 

The room falls deathly quiet as the two men walk around looking for him, but it’s not even a full minute when the first one to talk speaks again. 

 

“If he ran out we can still catch him, lets go!”

 

Peter almost cries in relief when they leave without nearing him, but he sees the light as they leave the main lab and go out the hall. It’ll probably be safest not to follow them out that way, so he backtracks, moving as quietly and slowly as he can to the door he came in through, hoping that if he goes back down, maybe he can find Happy and Rhodey and get into the safe room. 

 

_ Why are people after him?  _

 

_ How did they get  _ in  _ here? _

 

He’s breaking shakily when he makes it to the door, slowly pushing it open. 

 

He should have gone out the hall. 

 

“Hey buddy.”

 

There’s a man waiting behind the door when he pushes it open. Peter yelps and tries to run, but the guy is faster than him, catching one of his arms and yanking him backwards, then ducking down and throwing Peter easily over his shoulder. 

 

Peter screams. He outright screams, shouting and kicking and punching the man in the back, thrashing around, but the guy barely reacts, carrying him through the lab and out into the hall. He turns and Peter tries to grab the door frame, but the man pulls him away from it rough and fast, an arm wrapped around his legs to keep him stable on the broad shoulder, and his palms scrape against the edge. 

 

They feel like they’re probably bleeding but it hardly registers. 

 

“Happy! Happy help! Rhodey! Please help me!” He yells, kicking and struggling and not getting anywhere. He’s panicking, now. Full blooded panicking. Every logical part of his brain capable of thinking past immediate instinct is blurred out in favor of adrenaline fueled panic. 

 

The man carrying him pays him no mind other than an unnervingly gentle, “Hush, Peter.” 

 

They make their way through the halls, and Peter’s afraid that this guy is just going to waltz out of the compound with him, and do who knows what, but they take a different turn and wind up in the kitchen. 

 

Hands grab his waist and lower him roughly to his feet, but Peter can’t run away, the man gripping his upper arms. He turns Peter around and the boy freezes. 

 

Happy is there, in the kitchen, holding what looks like a tranquilizer. But he has his hands raised in surrender, because the two guys who were following Peter are there, pointing guns at him. 

 

Peter can’t move. 

 

“Victoria? Where is she, did she get the- Vic-” the man holding onto Peter cuts himself off when a woman enters the kitchen from the opposite side. She’s carrying a small case and Peter takes a sharp breath. He’s seen that before.

 

Those are Tony’s glasses. 

 

The woman walks right up to them and opens the case, giving the precious glasses inside to the man behind Peter. He lets go of Peter with his left hand to accept them, and the one arm is still enough— the guy could probably release Peter entirely and the kid would still be frozen in place, petrified, staring at the guns pointed at Happy. 

 

“It’s ok, Peter, you’re going to be fine,” Happy says. Peter can’t hear over the rushing in his ears, staring with teary eyes, trembling in place. 

 

“Don’t speak, Harold. Let me do the talking.” The man snaps. He pulls Peter back a little and walks around to face the boy, dropping to a squat in front of the kid. Peter gets a good look at him, tearing his eyes away from Happy to study the intruder. 

 

The man smiles when Peter focuses on him, squeezing his arm not unkindly, in something like approval. 

 

“There we go. You with me, Peter? You listening?” He prompts. Peter swallows hard and nods shortly. If he hadn’t gone to the bathroom half an hour ago, he might have peed his pants from the fear. 

 

“Good, that’s good. My name is Quentin Beck. This is my lovely assistant Victoria,” he speaks slowly and gestures to the woman who gave him the glasses, “And my two friends, Dimitri and Guterman.” He turns to the men with their guns pointed at Happy and Peter’s breath (oh, so he was breathing, after all) catches. 

 

“P-Please d-don’t hurt H-Happy,” he stutters. He’s so scared by this point that he’s on the verge of a meltdown.  _ Quentin Beck _ just smiles easily at him and laughs softly. 

 

“If you both behave, I promise, I won’t hurt you or Happy. Does that sound fair?” Beck offers. Peter doesn’t nod. He can’t  _ move _ . The intruder doesn’t seem to mind his lack of response. “Now, Peter. These,” he holds out Tony’s glasses, “are very important to me, and I need your help. There’s an AI connected to these glasses. So what I want you to do, is put them on and transfer the controls to me." Another pause as the older man lets his words set in. "Can you do that for me?” 

 

Peter shakes his head. Those are Tony’s glasses, the kid couldn’t transfer control if he wanted to. And he doesn’t. 

 

Beck frowns. 

 

“What did I just say about behaving.” It’s not a question, and one of the two men (Dimitri and Guterman…?) raises their gun and steps closer to Happy. Peter squeaks in alarm and tries to go to the man, but Beck holds him back. 

 

“Put on the glasses, Peter.” 

 

The man’s face is stern and his voice is firm and he looks dangerously close to running out of patience, and the gun at Happy’s head is the most clear, terrifying threat in the world. Peter reaches out with a shaking hand to take the glasses, slowly putting them on. 

 

To his surprise, the lenses light up, and a voice called Edith greets him. 

 

“Say, ‘transfer control to Quentin Beck’.” Beck orders. Peter’s lip trembles and he starts to hyperventilate. 

 

“I-I-I, I, I c-” 

 

“Say it.” 

 

Peter swallows hard and bites his lip and closes his eyes. 

 

“T-Transfer c-c-control to Quent-tin B-B-Beck,” he stutters. He’s crying and sniffling and the hand around his arm loosens slightly. 

 

“Any transfer will require confirmation.” Edith says. Beck gives him a look that makes his knees threaten to give out completely and Peter breathes unsteadily, not even hearing the way Happy tries near-desperately to coax him out of it. 

 

“C-Conf-f-firm.”

 

Beck smiles and gently takes the glasses off Peter’s face, unfazed by the violent way the boy flinches away from him, unable to go far with the grip on his arm. 

 

“Atta boy, Pete. You did the right thing.” Beck praises, putting the glasses on his face and standing up, smiling in a way so genuinely joyful it’s terrifying. “Alright everybody, let’s get this show on the road. Come on, kiddo, places to be.” 

 

Beck moves for the door and he doesn’t let go of Peter’s arm. It doesn’t take a genius to realize what’s happening, and Peter tries digging his sock-clad heels into the hard tiles, slipping and struggling and prying at the grip around his small bicep. 

 

“No! No no no, stop, please stop! Let go of me! Happy!” Peter shouts, pleading, trying to turn towards the head of security. 

 

It happens so fast. 

 

Happy makes eye contact with Peter and then elbows away the gun of the guy closest to him, grabbing the other and swinging him around, throwing him into the first. They both stumble back and Happy makes to lunge towards Peter, a flare of hope in the boy’s stomach as he reaches his free arm out towards the man. 

 

Beck rolls his eyes and groans like he’s _unimpressed_ , yanking Peter backwards. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a handgun just as Happy is turning back to them, and before the other man can even take a full step towards Peter’s outstretched hand, Beck pulls the trigger. 

 

Happy drops to his knees, and then all the way to the floor, and Peter screams again. 

 

He doesn’t see where the bullet hit and he can’t tell if Happy is moving or making any sounds over the tears blurring his eyes and his own voice. 

 

The other two men and Victoria follow Beck with slightly unsettled looks on their faces, and Quentin gives up dragging Peter, wrapping his arm around the boy’s waist and hauling him up, carrying him out of the compound against his hip, more or less unaffected by the boy's kicking and screaming and pleading. 

 

Peter feels like he’s on fire and his hands hurt and his throat hurts and he doesn’t know what’s going on but he thinks he’s going to puke because Happy just got freaking  _ shot _ and Beck all but tosses Peter into the back seat of the car closest to the building. 

 

The older man gets in behind him, pushing him towards the middle, and Peter tries to scramble for the opposite door but Beck grabs the hood of his sweatshirt and yanks him back again. It chokes Peter for a second and he coughs, gripping his collar and trying to turn. Quentin just gets a grip around his shoulders and pushes against his chest, pressing his back into the seat and leaning close, voice low and eyes dark and every bit a shadow looming over the boy. 

 

“I don’t want to hurt you, Peter, but if I have to I will. Now shut up and sit still.” 

 

The younger shakes his head and squirms, but it’s useless. He’s so small and weak in a child-state (and he hasn’t even gotten the time to consider how this  _ Quentin Beck _ knows about any of  _ that _ , how he knows who Peter is, how  _ any  _ of this is even  _ possible  _ ), and compared to a grown man that’s obviously no stranger to a gym, he’s a rag doll. 

 

His chest hitches and he hiccups, somewhere between sobbing and coughing and holding his breath, freaking out and vaguely trying to calm down but mostly unable to think beyond the desperate need to get out of this car and back to Happy. 

 

“Shh, calm down, kiddo. Easy. That’s it. We’ve got a bit of a trip ahead of us, why don’t you take a little nap?” 

  
The suggestion is horrifying and Peter knows the purpose of the rag that Victoria, who buckles herself into the front passenger seat, hands back to Beck— but that doesn’t make it any less paralyzing. The man holds it over his face and no matter how much he claws and shoves at Quentin’s arm, he can’t push the cloth away. He tries holding his breath but he’s panicking so goddamn much that he doesn’t even last fifteen seconds before breathing it in. 

 

There’s no scent to it but he starts to get dizzy and feel weak, the moving vehicle not responsible for the way trees outside darkly tinted windows start to blur. Peter can’t hold his eyes open and barely has the strength to keep his arms between his body and Quentin’s, his hysteric sobbing devolving quickly to pitiful whimpering, the flow of tears still squeezing out of his closed eyes. 

 

He’s losing consciousness fast but that doesn’t prevent the bone deep terror from setting in. He wants Tony. Holy shit, how did everything go so wrong so fast?! The Avengers are on the other side of the planet possibly dealing with  _ infinity stones  _ and he doesn’t know what happened to Rhodey and Happy just got  _ shot _ and now Peter’s being  _ kidnapped _ and— 

 

He wants Mr. Stark. He just wants Tony to save him.

 

Beck seems satisfied with the effect of whatever he drugged the boy with and tosses the cloth to the side, tucking Peter under his arm, petting the kid’s hair back and hushing him. 

 

“There you go, Pete. Just go to sleep now. It’ll be over before you know it.” 

  
_ Tony, where are you? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *le gasp* another cliffhanger. That ended very abruptly I’m sorry. 
> 
> I swear I saw ffh but I stopped listening after “bitch please, you’ve been to space”, and I still wanted to make Beck’s fellow criminals the same people from ffh, so. Hopefully I got the names right, IMDb was not very helpful


	19. Unfriendlies pt. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter tries to keep it together. Tony does not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the most and most regularly I’ve posted in my entire life and it’s only been three days. These chapters are getting progressively longer, which is cool I guess. **Please** note the warning abt Quentin Beck having issues before you dive into this. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: kidnapping, threats of violence, Quentin Beck has Serious Issues, once again the narrator is eight-ish years old and terrified so mind that.

Happy and Rhodey are both talking a mile a minute but Tony listens to every word, up until the medical team roll Happy away on a stretcher, a mess of cotton and pressure wraps and two different emergency doctors swamping him. Though, not before he tells them about the guy introducing himself to Peter.

 

“Alright, who the fuck is Quentin Beck? He has to have history with Stark Industries. There’s no way that just anyone could’ve done this,” Rhdoey says as they watch Happy being rolled away. 

 

“Agreed. He would need  _ extensive _ knowledge of how my tech works and how SI systems are run to get his hands on weapons like that and to be able to hack the fucking compound. Any kid in a basement with a radio could knock out communications but taking out Friday? Who the fuck are we dealing with,” Tony grits out. He’s itching to just get in his suit again and fly over the entirety of New York to find a trace of Peter, follow it and blow shit up until he gets his kid back. 

 

Friday’s been checking cameras all over New York and the area surrounding the compound, figuring out anyone who could’ve been heading their way, and scanning passengers for connections to SI or Peter’s face.

 

She’s also scanning for Quentin Beck’s history, but,  _ big surprise _ , his files are heavily protected and it’s taking her a while to break through. Even then, the information she’s uncovering bit by bit is mostly unhelpful things, like his family and where he went to school, nothing about SI yet. 

 

Tony knows knows that name and face somewhere but he’s verging on homicidal right now and it’s hard to think straight. 

 

The other Avengers arrive a few minutes later, Tony and Rhodey playing out scenarios and options while Rhodey also tosses around the idea of getting ahold of his contacts in the armed forces. There’s not much those people can do that Tony can’t, though. 

 

Natasha and Bruce immediately go to the training gym, both of them trying to keep the doctor calm. It won’t do anyone any good to have the Hulk around when they don’t even know where or what the fight is yet. Clint is already on the phone with Fury, and he barely offers anyone a second glance before going to the back corner of the kitchen and talking quietly but quickly into his cell. 

 

Which leaves Steve, Bucky and Sam to circle around with Tony and Rhodey, all five of them unbearably restless with worry and the need to find Peter. 

 

“What do these people want? What could this Beck guy’s angle be?” Sam says. His fingers are turning white from how hard he’s gripping his own crossed arms. Trying to keep his cool.

 

Tony has no such intentions.

 

“They obviously have a vendetta against the Avengers, probably against me specifically given the context. What I want to know is how they know who Peter is. Even as a regular teenager, other than an internship, his connection to us is very limited and protected. How the fuck did he know that the child was Peter Parker, and why did he take him.” The engineer says. Friday, the mightiest multitasker, is counting seconds for him to breathe to in his earpiece. He’s not listening. 

 

“Sorry to interrupt. Boss? I just finished a depth scan of the workshop, and it appears the web shooters from Peter’s suit are missing.” Friday says over the speakers. Tony tenses. 

 

“Do you think he got to them? Or did Beck steal them?” Steve prompts. Tony shakes his head. 

 

“I don’t know. Hopefully the first one. He’s a smart kid, maybe he managed to get them when he was running away?” He says. If Peter got his web shooters then he wouldn’t be completely defenseless. On the flip side, however, if he tries anything and fails, it could mean a lot more trouble for the boy. 

 

Which just brings Tony back to the other very, very pressing, alarming problem. 

 

“Fri, any progress with Edith?” He asks. 

 

“Negative.” The AI responds. He exacted that response and it’s still painful. 

 

They’re trying to hack back into Edith, but Tony built her well. The main control center is in the glasses, and Beck not only those, but is now the admin of her program. He’s  _ using her _ to combat them hacking her and it’s fucking infuriating. Another example of how good this guy is, how well he knows what he’s doing— and the fact that Tony hasn’t identified his connection or motive yet is driving the billionaire crazy. 

 

“But I’ve just found the car.” 

 

The five men in the circle perk up and exchange looks. 

 

“Where are they?” Steve asks (demands, really). 

 

“They entered a helicopter in a field just outside of the compound’s property and flew it to a warehouse in Manhattan. Uploading coordinates now,” Friday replies. She also pulls up a video feed for them to watch, seeing the helicopter landing on a rooftop with a timestamp for 30 minutes ago. 

 

_ Fuck _ . 

 

However long it took them to get to that warehouse and they’ve been there for half an hour already?! 

 

The Avengers were gone for too fucking long. Peter’s been in this psycho’s grip for  _ too fucking long _ . 

 

The video shows a whole crowd of people meeting them, and Friday’s able to zoom it in to reveal that the vast majority of the group that Beck (wearing the Edith glasses and pointing his fingers) appears to be shouting at have an octopus emblem on their shoulders or chests. Bucky tenses up next to Sam and Steve’s jaw clenches. Fucking  _ Hydra _ , too?!

 

“ _ Hydra _ ? There’s no way this is some small-time personal attack, Tony, not if Beck has those guys with him. How the hell did this happen? How long did they  _ plan this  _ ?!” Sam snaps, and they all watch with horror as Beck reaches into the helicopter and steps out with his arms full of Peter Parker.

 

“Unknown. You must proceed with caution. The targets are armed with Stark weapons-“ Friday explains, and a separate screen pops up to zoom in and show some of the guns and blasters the Hydra operatives carry, “Edith’s drones-“ the second display changes to a different security camera’s wide angle, showing the mass of drones floating down and around the warehouse (Friday probably tried to show Tony the satellite being opened and the drones being unleashed but that was likely during his blackout period), “and they have Peter Parker as a hostage.” 

 

The smaller screen shows an even closer video of Beck walking towards the doors of the warehouse, almost definitely for stairs down from the roof, going to hide in the lower floors, still carrying Peter in his arms. 

 

Friday continues, saying she’s managed to identify some of the other non-Hydra people as former Stark employees, and that she hasn’t cracked entirely through Beck’s files yet, but it is likely that he’s also a former employee. She starts listing off information about the location and different weapons they have, running facial recognition and identity bread crumbs, charting flight and entrance paths; algorithms running overdrive to come up with every piece of information they could possibly need for a successful mission.

 

Tony doesn’t hear any of it. He’s stopped listening entirely, even as Steve engages the AI with more questions and begins forming a plan. 

 

All Tony can do is watch the man carrying an apparently unconscious kid into the warehouse. 

 

For  _ Beck’s _ sake, Tony thinks, Peter better not be hurt. 

 

* * *

 

Peter wakes up cold and disoriented. 

 

It takes him a while to figure out what’s happening around him, but when he does, he feels his stomach sink. 

 

He’s laying on one of those super cheap, definitely molding, foldable lounge chair cots, and there’s a hole down at the bottom. It smells bad and he sits up partially, taking slow breaths as he soaks up what’s going on. 

 

They must be in some kind of old factory or storage building, because there’s a lot of room and what looks like at least three floors, all with railings and halls around the edges of the large open area in the middle. Peter’s been pushed off to one side, surrounded by clutter and old machines and dust, but a quick 360 tells him there are no doors or windows around him, only the big double doors across the room and one to the far side. 

 

There are people all over. 

 

A lot more than the three that had accompanied Beck to the compound.

 

In fact, Peter can’t even see those three, Victoria and Dimitri and Guterman somewhere out of his sight. All he can see are people he doesn’t know decked out in black clothes and body armor, octopus symbols (why is that familiar?) on their shoulders and chests, carrying weapons with “Stark” written on them. 

 

The guy— Beck— in the middle of the room, shouting different things to people and looking like he’s arguing with two others, a lady and a bald man standing in front of him. All of that, and  _ drones _ . 

 

Flying robots whizzing about, the whirring of machines and clanging sounds echoing among all the voices. They kind of remind him of the projectors from school, but with a lot more parts and wires. He can guess they’re armed, too. The mass of weapons in the room is freaking him out. 

 

But it’s ok, it’s all going to be fine, because the Avengers can handle this. The Avengers can totally handle this and they’ll be here any minute to save Peter. Tony on his own could probably stop all of them. The man’s Iron Man suit can handle this and Tony will show up and rescue Peter any second now. 

 

(Right?) 

 

Peter gulps and it would’ve been audible had the entire building not been buzzing with activity. He sits up straight, looking around, and no one seems to notice him. No one pays him any attention at all, and there are bulky machines not too far away, lining the room (pushed out of the way to make room, most likely, but room for what?). 

 

If he can sneak behind one then maybe he could hide and work his way out. He could be quiet, he’s only in his socks after all, and everybody here appears so busy. It would be easy to hide behind the big contraptions, all the different parts and spaces. 

 

Which, wow. Maybe whatever Beck drugged him with is affecting the childish part of him more than the teenager part, because Peter is  _ strategizing _ right now. (Or, maybe, he’s just calm because no one is paying him any attention. That could be it.) 

 

He starts to stand up, scooting to the edge of the cot and slowly inching his legs off. 

 

Not a second after his socked toes touch the ground and one of the drones is right in front of his face. It’s making so many sounds, alarming clicking noises and floating closer to him. 

 

In a flash he retracts his legs, balling his body up and scrambling away from the robot, yelping in surprise. That definitely catches attention, but he doesn’t see it now, feeling for the web shooters under his sleeves. The inconspicuous straps still around his wrists calm him slightly. 

 

“I wouldn’t do that, Peter. You’re going to stay put or you’ll have to take another nap.” Beck’s voice comes from across the building. The boy’s eyes snap up and sees his kidnapper looking at him, along with a fair number of the octopus people. One of them steps away from the group, a large Stark weapon in his arms, to say something to Beck that Peter can’t hear. 

 

(He wishes he had his super hearing.)

 

(He wishes he still had  _ any _ of his powers at all.)

 

The threat makes the kid nod quickly and wrap his arms around himself, breathing too fast as he leans away from the drone. He hasn’t started crying yet but his lip is trembling and he feels the tell-tale heaviness in his chest. 

 

Beck snaps something to the octopus guy and turns to those people he was talking to (“Enough, Janice, everything is going to go perfectly as long as  _ William _ does his job,  _ right _ ?”) before sending them away, and then, oh no, he’s walking over to Peter. 

 

The man approaches confidently, stepping right up to the cot. He reaches towards Peter with the same fluid confidence and the boy whimpers, flinching back at how fast his kidnapper invades his space. 

 

Beck seems to pause at the reaction and his impassive face goes gentle, but this close, without the same adrenaline or sheen of tears he had at the compound, Peter can see how wrong it looks; layered over something far less kind. 

 

“Give me your hands, kid. I’m sure they’re still hurting.” Quentin requests. Peter furrows his brows in confusion, hardly daring to look at his hands. 

 

Sure enough there are gashes, not very deep but long and surrounded by what looks like (but can’t actually be) rug-burn, straight across his palms. 

 

(From when he grabbed the door frame in the lab, maybe? Probably.)

 

(Even if he cared about the injuries right now, he would not want this guy to tend to them, and even if he _did_ , he can't risk Beck finding his web shooters.)

 

Peter closes his fists and flinches away again when Beck reaches towards him a second time. The man lets out a patient sigh and offers a soft smile, sitting on the edge of the lounge chair near Peter’s feet and shooing the drone away. 

 

From a distance he kind of resembled Mr. Stark (with the glasses on). Up close, though, he looks nothing like Tony.

 

“This operation isn’t about hurting you, kiddo, so if you do what I tell you to, you’ll be fine. You can trust that, Pete, you can trust me. Come on, your hands,” Quentin repeats, holding out his palms for Peter to close the distance. 

 

Peter does not close the distance. 

 

He recoils back at even the suggestion and feels himself starting to cry again. 

 

“T- trust, _trust_  you?! You _killed_ _Happy_!” 

 

Regardless of whether that’s true or not, Peter hadn’t wanted to confront the possibility, but then the words are out of his mouth and he wants to throw up. 

 

Beck’s face goes dark and the gentle expression drops like the mask almost definitely was. 

 

“And I’ll kill you too if you don’t do as I say. Give me your hands,  _ now _ , Peter.” The man demands. The boy isn’t sure if he’s more upset by the threat or Quentin basically admitting to ( _ successfully _ ) murdering Happy. Either way, he’s too shocked and scared to resist beyond hyperventilating and crying when Beck grabs his wrists. 

 

Peter lets the older man tug him over, biting his lip to keep from sobbing as Quentin holds his wrists in one hand and reaches to one of the compartments on his belt with the other. 

 

Thankfully he doesn't seem to notice the skin-tight web shooters. He pulls out legitimate medical supplies and that relief is almost comforting to the terrified child. Peter sits as still as he can, crying softly and hiccuping as Beck cleans off the gashes (which  _ hurts _ , damnit) and applies an anti-infection healing cream (that does not look like Neosporin), laying down little cotton rectangles and wrapping gauze and medical tape around his hands to secure it. 

 

The man is cautious, verging on considerate, almost  _ caring _ in the way he bandages Peter’s hands and softly hushes the boy, as if he didn’t threaten the kid’s life a minute ago. He doesn’t let go when he finishes, holding Peter’s small hands in his, and looking expectantly at the younger.

 

When Peter tries to pull his arms back, Beck tightens his grip and frowns. 

 

“Didn’t anybody teach you manners?  _ You’re welcome _ .” 

 

Peter chokes back a sob. Is he serious?

 

The look on the man’s face would suggest so. 

 

“Th-thank you...” Peter mumbles, not meeting Beck’s eyes, shaking and sniffling and waiting for the grip to loosen so he can pull his hands back. 

 

It must be enough, because the man smiles and the gentle face is back up again. Peter’s getting whiplash from how fast his kidnapper is flipping from soft to menacing. Beck lets go of his hands and Peter coils his arms back, wrapping them around himself and bracing his bent knees between his body and the older like a barrier. 

 

Beck doesn’t seem to mind. He puts a hand on Peter’s sock-clad foot and the boy’s breath catches, not daring to blink as the man pats his shin and squeezes his ankle, looking back at the bustle in the room. 

 

“Do you see those men, with the black suits and the patches?” Beck asks. He doesn’t look at Peter and Peter doesn’t look away from him. The kid opts for a nod and humming confirmation as opposed to speaking. 

 

Beck smirks, turning to Peter again. He scoots closer on the cot and Peter doesn’t have anywhere else to go but  _ off _ , and he’s not ready to test his kidnapper’s threat about drugging him again.  So he sits there, trembling more violently and biting the insides of his cheeks  _ hard _ to keep from sobbing loudly when Beck stops right in front of him, not even having to fully extend his arm to brush Peter’s hair back. 

 

“They’re part of a very special group called Hydra. Do you know what that is?” The man says quietly. Peter shakes his head. He does know, actually, now that he hears the name, but what he knows is limited and he’s got a feeling that he’s better off the more unaware he appears. “That’s alright. They’re just a team, kind of like the Avengers. And they have some goals they want to achieve. I have some goals as well, and I’m sure you do too, right Pete? Right now your goals are probably to stay alive and unharmed, yeah?” 

 

Peter whimpers and sniffles hard, and the tears in his eyes well up so much so fast that they spill over without him blinking. He nods again.

 

“But here’s the cool thing: if we all work together, then we can all achieve our goals. I want Tony Stark to pay for what he’s done. Our Hydra friends want more, hmm,  _ influence _ . You don’t want to get hurt. That’s why our system works so well. They help me, I help them, we all gain a little something. So as long as you do as you’re told, kiddo, you’ll be just fine.” Peter hiccups through the tears and Beck laughs to himself, seeming to study the younger for a moment before cupping the side of the boy’s face with his hand.

 

“God, I like you so much better like this. Little Peter Parker is a lot less annoying than Spider-Man, huh? Wonder if there’s any way to prolong the downsizing…” The man grins when the kid’s jaw gapes.

 

Peter freezes. 

 

He- _what?_

 

Oh, this is bad. This is really fucking bad. He can’t breathe. Peter can't freaking breathe. This man knows, his  _ kidnapper knows.  _ What if he- what if he tries to hurt Peter because he’s Spider-Man, or Peter’s friends, or  _ May _ , or-

 

“Yeah, kiddo, I know. Everyone here knows. Your pal Tony isn’t nearly as good as he thinks he is about keeping secrets. And if you don’t want any _interested parties_ taking advantage of your alter ego, buddy, then I suggest you stay on my good side. That means being on your best behavior, _including remembering your_ _manners_.”

 

Beck chuckles at his words, like terrifying Peter into thanking him earlier is some inside joke between them now. Nevertheless, the man’s smile goes soft again as he pets Peter’s hair.

 

“If you’re very, very good, I’ll make sure nothing bad happens to you, and you can go back home to your aunt. Now doesn’t that sound like a good deal?”

 

The boy can’t handle it anymore. He closes his eyes, squeezing out another flow of tears and choking out a sob. He’s so fucking scared, he thinks he’s going to throw up, but puking on the older man probably wouldn’t earn him any brownie points and his kidnapper just told him that if he is anything less than perfect, then  _ interested parties _ might take  _ advantage  _ of him— whatever that even  _ means _ . 

 

“Oh,  _ oh _ , sweetheart, shh. Shh.” Beck hushes, and to Peter’s horror, the man reaches forward, grabbing Peter under the arms and tugging him over until Quentin can tuck the small boy under his arm, wrapping his other around the younger's knees, all but gathering the kid into the older’s lap. “Aw, you’re just so scared, aren’t you?” He coos. 

 

Peter sobs again, doing his best to curl in on himself. He wants to go home more than he ever has before in his life. His skin is crawling from how Beck pets his hair and rubs his back and wipes the tear tracks off his cheeks, a gross imitation of a comforting parent. It makes the boy crave the genuine relief and reassurance of Tony, and Steve and Bucky, and May, and  _ Ben _ . 

 

He knows it’s unreasonable, especially considering that Iron Man is almost definitely on his way to save Peter by now, but the memory of how safe Peter always felt in Ben’s embrace practically haunts him as his kidnapper holds him close.

 

Beck doesn’t let go until Peter somehow pulls himself together enough to stop crying. He doesn’t stop shaking, but he dams up the flow from his eyes and stares at the concrete ground ahead of him, practicing breathing until the older man finally,  _ finally _ gives him space. 

 

“It’s almost over, buddy. We’re close to finally being done. Be good, and you’ll be alright.” Beck says, whispering right against Peter’s crown. He ruffles the boy’s hair and his smile is unnervingly genuine as he stands. 

 

The man struts back to the center of the room without a second glance at Peter, almost instantly pointing at a group of Hydra agents and shouting something, though the boy can feel the eyes of different operatives watching him carefully.

 

He knows what these people did to Bucky (and something suspiciously close to what his spider sense feels like is warning him that this could be, among so many other things, a  _ trap _ ) and he shudders at the idea of what they might want with a mutant spider kid.

 

Peter doesn’t even hear what Beck says despite the man yelling. He’s so close to passing out from fear that he can barely see. Though, that could also be the crying. He’s definitely crying again now, fading adrenaline from his little _chat_ with his kidnapper.

 

He just wishes Mr. Stark was here already. 

 

* * *

 

Tony’s verging on cardiac arrest by the time they finally load up and ship out for the warehouse. They’re taking the jet, because it’ll cut the few hour trip down to maybe twenty minutes, but they’re going to land it a field away. 

 

Clint, Natasha, Steve and Bucky will be in a jeep, Bruce will be, well,  _ Hulk _ , and Sam and Tony will fly in. 

 

Technically they’re going for a stealth approach, but considering how Tony’s not planning on letting a singular one of the fuckers responsible for this live, it doesn’t really matter. 

 

Rhodey stayed back with Happy, thankfully, but he’s also watching cameras and everyone’s coms and vitals, and there are some Shield agents on stand-by if needed. 

 

Again, Tony’s planning on leaving behind nothing but ashes, but it’s still nice to know they’ve got backup. 

 

Hulk and the ex-assassins are going to take the ground to make sure none of the Hydra operatives (or  _ Beck  _ ) leave unless they’re in handcuffs (or, you know, body bags. Tomato tomáto.) Steve, Bucky, and Tony are going to storm the inside, and Sam is going to circle the building, using Friday’s scanning abilities and Redwing.

 

Tony’s just going to raise hell until he gets a reading for his spider kid. 

 

Once Friday figured out the code Beck's been using to encrypt and protect all his information, the flood gates opened up. Former SI employee that Tony apparently fired for being unstable, they guy is a _psycho_. Made friends with Hydra by selling them some illusion tech (which is why every Avenger is equipped with lenses to filter out illusions), then joined together over a mutual desire to burn the A-Team to the ground.

 

 

It's a trap, obviously, but not a very good one. First of all, because Bucky's cleared of brainwashing and Tony wouldn't put it past the soldier to beat the living shit out of any agent that even dares to try reciting his old trigger words (not to mention how Steve and Sam might react to that). Secondly, the _Hulk_. Speaks for himself.  

 

Hydra has ulterior motives and plans on betraying Beck. Beck has ulterior motives and plans on betraying Hydra. Both sides think they're going to be walking away the victorious champions having defeated the invincible Iron Man, with a little spider-powered souvenir as the cherry on top. 

 

Which is the third reason that their plan will go to shit. A final grave mistake in a short, devastating line of severe screw-ups. 

 

Peter Parker is under the protection of the motherfucking Avengers, and they're not happy about him being taken away from them. 

 

They approach the warehouse fast and low.

 

Hulk is on his own wavelength but that kind of works to their advantage. People on the ground and outside get a little occupied by the giant green rage monster and miss the archer and the Black Widow until the two are taking out all the sight-seers and long distance shooters they spot. 

 

Edith’s drones identify Hulk as the highest threat level and biggest priority (rightfully so), and the majority that Beck has available (thankfully not even half of the full arsenal) go after him. Fortunately, Hulk can’t actually die, and the swarms of robots shooting him only make him angrier and therefore stronger, drawing more and more attention from the drones and human enemies both. 

 

Which gives Steve, Tony, and Bucky a pretty open window for heading inside. 

 

They just pass through the doors when Hulk throws something ( _ shit _ , was that the jeep?) through a wall, roaring, and a string of shouting goes off. 

 

So much for stealthy entrance. 

 

It doesn’t even matter anymore, because in the process of blocking Bucky from bullets and blasting a couple doors open, hardly hearing anything over the pounding in his ears, Tony’s scans pick up a child-sized heat signature moving upwards. 

 

He wants to blast holes right through the ceiling and fly straight up, but they’re being flanked, and the Stark weapons that these operatives use have shields and repellent energy blasts to backfire the Iron Man suit’s target missiles, not to mention the actual  _ offensive  _ abilities of the weapons, so he can’t leave Steve and Bucky. 

 

But God, the moment they’re clear, the _exact fucking_ _moment—_

 

Tony’s getting his kid back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched the new Onward trailer and I already know it’s going to, at some point, make me cry. I’m ready for it.


	20. Unfriendlies pt. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has to be very brave. Bad guys get what’s coming to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh I was going to post this weeks ago and then I didn’t write anything at all. There’s going to be one more short chapter for a proper conclusion to this mini series, and then we’re back to the fluff!! 
> 
> This got so long oh my god, it's almost 6k babes and I...... did not edit it oops
> 
> Content warning: narrator is still a child and still terrified, semi-graphic/graphic(?) depictions of violence, potential minor character death (unreliable narrator doesn’t know if he’s actually dead or not)

For another twenty minutes or so, Peter just sits there.

 

Eventually he stops shaking and crying and gets his breathing under control. Once he’s calmed and people start paying less attention to him (save for a few agents he tracks in his peripheral vision who watch him like hawks), it’s a lot easier to think. 

 

He has to get out of here. 

 

The more he observes all the Hydra people and Beck prepare, the more obvious it becomes that they are very,  _ very  _ prepared for fighting the Avengers.

 

Which wouldn’t be so intimidating if not for the  _ drones _ . Beck’s controlling them with the glasses, which means Tony made them. And if Tony made them, then they’re nothing to be taken lightly. 

 

Mr. Stark, Mr. Rhodes, and Dr. Banner are really the only people who’d be completely safe if they got swamped by the robots. Natasha and Clint, Sam and Steve and Bucky— there’s no way any of them could fight off a swarm of drones by themselves, and Peter doesn’t put it past these people to do everything they can to make sure every Avenger ends up in the most vulnerable position possible. 

 

Peter has faith in his friends. He really does. But he’s not stupid enough to believe this will be easy for them, and he knows he can take away a lot of the complications and difficulty if he can escape. 

 

If he can escape then they won’t have to worry about him. 

 

Now he just has to figure out  _ how _ to escape. 

 

He’s being watched, by drones and people alike, and if he tries to leave the cot, he could be drugged (or... murdered. His kidnapper did threaten to kill him). Not to mention he’s down his spider powers; has the strength, agility, and speed of a probably-not-even-eight-year-old child; and he doesn’t even have shoes on. 

 

But he has his web shooters. 

 

All he needs is a plan. Unfortunately, it’s extremely difficult to come up with any kind of strategy, even significantly calmed down, when he’s so scatterbrained.

 

The stress is doing a big number on his body and psyche, and it’s growing harder and harder to organize his teenage vigilante brain when he’s got all the child hormones and fear running ramped. That, and he hasn’t had any extra sleep today except for when Beck drugged him. It’s like his whole brain is on a livewire and wrought with panic adrenaline, but he’s so  _ tired _ , feeling heavy and sore.

 

He’s walking himself through a theory, that maybe if he webs one of the drones to a machine or another drone, or a  _ person _ , he could cause enough trouble to make a run for it, web anyone who runs after him to the ground where they stand— when suddenly Mr. Beck shouts for everybody to shut up. 

 

Everyone in the room pauses or freezes, turning to look at the man. It goes quiet.

 

Peter strains to figure what they’re waiting for, his heart rate picking up again. 

 

“They’re on their way in. Let’s get this show on the road, people!” Beck shouts. Peter’s eyes go wide.

 

The Avengers are here. He doesn’t know whether to feel relief or dread. 

 

“Edith, take care of the green guy and anyone wearing armor. You guys want your soldier back? My drones are going to be occupied with the fucking Hulk and  _ Iron Man _ , so you’re on your own. I’d suggest taking out Captain America first.“ Quentin says, while agents start to jog towards the doors and set up tall tripods, putting gun-resembling weapons on top and making a circle of the contraptions, a group of agents standing in the middle. 

 

“You heard the man. Word of advice, everyone, if you see the Shield agents, kill ‘em from a distance and watch your back, they’re slippery. I want eyes on the Falcon at all times, and for  _ fucks sake _ -“ A Hydra operative starts yelling to the group, and Peter recognizes him as the one that had spoken to Beck when Peter first tried getting off his cot. “-don’t die. Let’s go!”

 

( _ Good luck with that _ , Peter thinks.) 

 

The Hydra man points and waves groups of agents out the doors, and then there’s the people in regular clothes, walking up to Beck. Peter can’t hear what they tell him but he seems to get pissed off, shouting at them to, “Make it happen, or you get to deal with the Avengers yourselves!” 

 

As soon as the mass of people start moving smoothly, the Hydra man who’d yelled approaches Beck with long strides. They’re about the same height, but from the way the man puffs his chest out and puts a hand on the probably-gun (they’re too far to see exact details in this light) at his hip, it seems like he’s trying to compensate for something or show-up Beck. Regardless of whether that works or not, he makes an intimidating image to the child hero.

 

He points towards Peter and the boy’s kidnapper shakes his head. The kid hopes against hope that Beck was at least partially telling the truth about not letting Hydra have him. 

 

The Hydra guy doesn’t like that response, apparently, because he starts to argue with Beck, and Peter’s thinking this is it, this is a chance to run, when everyone is getting distracted by the Avengers. He doesn’t need to hear them to know that the two men are arguing about him, but they aren’t actually  _ looking  _ at him— in fact, no one is, and most of the drones are whizzing out the door in quick succession. 

 

But then the muffled yet very obvious banging and shouting sounds begin, sparking everyone to move faster, the people with guns pulling them off their shoulders and looking into the scopes, putting lenses over their eyes.

 

A huge  _ crash _ that seems to shake the building erupts, accompanied by a chilling roar. It’s definitely the Hulk, thank god, but the sound is as terrifying as the reaction it sparks. Peter whimpers, feeling for his web shooters.

 

He hasn’t thought this through at all but he’s prepping himself to run. 

 

Unfortunately, the chance doesn’t come.

 

Seconds after the crash startles the room, the Hydra man strides over to Peter, Beck arguing on his trail. 

 

The boy flinches away and backs up, scrambling to get off the cot. He almost falls off the back but the man reaches the chair before he can clamber clumsily to the floor. The guy grabs his arm tight, yanking him forward roughly off the cot and onto his wobbly legs. 

 

Peter almost collapses, shrieking at the harsh and sudden movements, but he clings to the arm holding him, panic replacing logic as he tries to pry the grip off himself. 

 

“We can handle this.” The man deadpans.

 

“Not without disabling the Iron Man suit. It’s the most advanced piece of technology on the planet, and my code fucking  _ broke _ . We need to  _ leave _ and try again when we can actually combat the force of the Avengers.” Beck responds.

 

“You overestimate them,” Hydra man laughs, pulling Peter along by the arm towards the side door. “The Avengers are poorly organized and clouded by emotion, thanks to your little  _ prize  _ here,” he shakes Peter’s arm for emphasis and it makes the boy’s whole small body fling around, so much that Beck grabs his shoulders to steady him and stop the three of them from moving. The younger feels sick at the Hydra man referring to him as a  _ prize _ . 

 

“You’re  _ underestimating  _ them.” His kidnapper says darkly. The Hydra man sneers. 

 

“ _ Relax _ . My men and your drones have it covered. But I agree that this fight just got more difficult, which is why we’re going up.” He says, and roughly pulls Peter out of Beck’s grip, making him yelp, continuing to drag him towards the door. 

 

Beck follows with a glare that causes Peter’s knees buckle, not two steps behind and quickly catching up. Hydra guy pays no mind, yanking the boy forward so relentlessly that he doesn’t get the chance to collapse. 

 

It hurts his arm and he continues to claw at the grip around his wrist, but nothing comes of it. All he can do is hiccup and whimper at every harsh tug and try his best to keep up. 

 

They take a couple turns down cramped, poorly lit halls, and Peter’s almost sure that he’s about to get murdered like in some kind of horror movie, when they finally stop at an elevator. 

 

The Hydra guy presses the button, and the moment the doors open, he unceremoniously tosses Peter inside. Beck follows, and the agent enters last, each of the older men standing on either side of the boy and taking an unnervingly possessive hold of Peter’s wrists.

 

So much for escaping. 

 

* * *

 

“I found Peter, he’s going up, looks like in an elevator. We’re a little busy down here, can anyone get to him?” Tony calls into the coms, nanotech building a shield in front of him and Bucky while Steve curls up behind his frisbee. 

 

He doesn’t get a response for a few seconds. Then:

 

“I’m on it,” Natasha’s voice answers. “The big guy is taking care of most of the drones, Tony, but there’s a whole swarm of them leaving. Going for a-” pause, “-third story window. East side.”

 

Tony thanks her and lowers the nano shield so he and Bucky can both open fire. They don’t actually manage to take out any agents, but they’re a distraction enough that Steve can throw his shield and it knocks out one operative from behind. 

 

The two cover for him, Tony raining a small hellfire of missiles that keep the agents occupied as Steve recollects his shield. Once Captain America is close enough, he pulls his favorite fail-proof move: punching a Hydra agent in the face so hard that the man’s plexiglass helmet breaks and the guy falls limp— unconscious or dead, none of them care. 

 

(That’s a lie. Tony would prefer dead at this point, if he’s honest.)

 

Tony shoots a blast that knocks back the little wall of agents trying to deflect them, blasting through a set of double doors. The doors open into what must be their central operating zone, the huge open space unmistakable as the storage area. 

 

Because nothing can ever be easy, there’s a defensive ring of agents in the middle of the room with what look like plasma blasters of some sort, and they all turn to the three men in the door. The Avengers barely manage to duck behind the walls when the blast hits where they had been moments before, and Cap and Bucky hustle to stand behind Tony, who forms another nano shield just in time for a second blast to take out their cover wall. 

 

It’s strong, nearly knocks them back, and Tony curses in his suit. 

 

He hopes Natasha has better luck. 

 

* * *

 

Natasha has much better luck than the boys. 

 

Sam gives her a lift to the third floor, a few windows down from where the drones entered, and in the more quiet, poorly lit hallways, she’s in her element. The lenses Tony gave them to filter out illusions also have the best kind of thermal scanners that they could come up with on such short notice, and she can see every time one or two Hydra agents, set to prowl the perimeter, are coming down a hall. 

 

She waits, silent and unnoticed around the corner, and takes them out, one by one. High-tech weapons are useless when her martial arts skills don’t give the agents the chance to use them.

 

In her ear, Tony offers her the best help he can and Friday charts her a path, giving her directions as she finds her way to an elevator. Apparently, whichever one Peter is in doesn’t go up all the way, and they’ll have to transfer to a different lift. That’s where Natasha will catch them.

 

Just as she takes out another operative, she hears the muffled buzzing of his com and grabs it, listening in. 

 

_ “Crow?! Why the fuck isn’t Crow answering, it says he’s online!”  _

 

_ “He’s with Beck right now, calm down.” _

_   
_ _ “Why haven’t we—  _ fuck—  _ killed that guy already?” _

 

_ “Crow’s taking the kid to a chopper, needs Beck’s drones for support. He’ll kill him once they get to the roof. Now focus and take out the fucking Falcon, Rouge Team! We’re going to have to outrun the Hulk, we don’t need _ —” 

 

The line cuts out with a static explosion accompanied by the distant, unmistakable sound of Tony blowing something up. Natasha hopes anyone wounded has the good sense to die before Iron Man can properly get his hands on them. 

 

So Peter is accompanied by Beck and some agent going by the code name “crow”. Which. Really original, Hydra.

 

Natasha reloads two of her guns and stands behind the corner, listening. She watches the thermal scanner and sees six drones flying in a window beside the elevator doors, the orange glowing hue around them signaling that they’re cloaked illusions.

 

A quick tap removes the lens function and Natasha pulls out a small compact mirror, subtly checking around the corner to confirm that, yep, the drones are invisible. A clever trick to appear absent. 

 

She’s guessing “Crow” won’t be getting the change to double cross Beck. 

 

Whispering to Sam to confirm that he’s still watching her back, circling around to guard the windows of the hall she’s in, Natasha only prays that Peter doesn’t get caught in the cross fire. 

 

* * *

 

Peter’s breaths come short and quick and he squeezes his fists tight. 

 

The Hydra man and Beck both have firm grips on his lower forearms, the agent’s slightly more crushing and higher up than Quentin’s, but neither of them take notice to his web shooters, thankfully. 

 

He holds his breath anyways. There’s anxiety coursing through him as he tries to stay as still as possible so he doesn’t alert the older men to the presence of the wrist straps. 

 

The stillness is difficult to accomplish with the jerky movements of the elevator. It rises slowly, seeming long out of use, and comes to stuttering pauses that make Peter think they’re getting off, but neither man moves, and a few seconds later the lift begins to rise again. 

 

It’s for that reason that Peter doesn’t expect the doors to actually open when they do, and he startles a little in surprise. 

 

“Jumpy?” Hydra man smirks. (Because apparently it’s funny to be on edge while being held hostage.) 

 

Peter doesn’t have the courage or dignity to spare to acknowledge the man, simply swallowing hard as both the agent and Beck step forward, dragging him out of the elevator. 

 

They start off briskly down the hallway when suddenly the Hydra man’s earpiece gets loud, voices muffled and cloaked with static but for Peter to hear it over his heart pounding, the people on the operative’s radio must be shouting very loudly. 

 

Hydra man pauses, listening. Whatever they’re saying, he can actually understand, and his impassive, mildly amused face falls dark. 

 

Peter feels his stomach sink as the man’s grip on him tightens. The grim expression changes, a terrifyingly obvious mask of peppiness plastered over it. 

 

“Looks like there’s been a change of schedule, Beck.” The agent begins. He turns to Peter and Beck, and the boy looks frantically between the two of them, the tension so thick it cuts through even his heavy panic. “Plan fell through, pal, but that’s to be expected when we let someone like you call the shots. Your service is no longer required, Mr. Beck, ‘fraid it’s time to let you go.” 

 

Peter’s eyes go wide as the man pulls out a gun. It happens almost in slow motion, and yet so fast that the kid’s brain can hardly register what’s happening and what’s going on, the sharp twists of attitude and action. The agent points the gun above Peter’s head and pulls the trigger. 

 

There’s a silencer on the weapon but the god awful _click_  still makes the boy’s knees buckle and he cries out, closing his eyes and flinching, instinct telling him to curl into a ball. 

 

He doesn’t make it to the floor, because Hydra man keeps a firm grip on his arm, and  _ so does Beck _ .

 

It takes him, and apparently the agent, too, a few seconds to process what’s happened. When he does, he looks up, and sees Beck staring daggers into the Hydra man.

 

“That was a bad idea.” 

 

There’s a little sizzling sound, almost, and Peter watches as drones (six, there’s six of them) seem to melt to life around them, two of them hovering beside Beck and casting a blue glow that reminds Peter of Friday’s scanners but must be a projected shield. The bullet is frozen in place in the wall of blue, and when the shields click off, the tablet drops to the floor with a clink. 

 

Hydra man doesn’t get a chance to say anything before two drones shoot him, little laser shots to the chest and shoulder. Peter watches in horror as the man falls backward with a flail and a shout, and the boy almost falls with him but Beck yanks him back out of the other man’s grip. 

 

There are  _ holes _ in the man’s armor and  _ body _ , there’s  _ red _ , there’s sizzling and  _ steam  _ and Peter doesn’t even realize that he’s started screaming and thrashing until Beck drops to one knee behind him, jerking him closer, grabbing him by both upper arms and shaking him slightly. 

 

“Peter!  _ Peter  _ ! Shut up,  _ stop it _ . Knock it off, or do you want me to shoot you too?!” Beck shouts. So very surprisingly, that does not calm Peter down. He tries pushing at Beck’s shoulders and punching his chest and face, kicking at him, screaming for him to let him go. 

 

There’s no logic or strategy in his head anymore. Just pure, petrified, childlike  _ panic _ and he needs to  _ get away _ . 

 

He doesn’t have to find out what Beck’s reaction would have been to him not calming down. This close, if he wasn’t yelling, he would’ve heard Edith speaking to the man from the glasses. And then Beck stands up abruptly, spinning Peter around so his back is against the guy’s hip and he can see down the hall, where— 

 

_ Natasha _ .

 

_ Oh thank fuck _ .

 

Peter freezes and looks at her, suddenly overwhelmed with cautious but rushing relief.  _ Natasha’s here _ . 

 

She’s pointing two handguns at Beck and the kid spares a thought to what good those will do against the drones, but then— oh  _ no _ , the drones are cloaked again, and- and Nat can’t  _ see _ them and—

 

“Natasha the dro-!” He tries to warn her but one of Beck’s hands leaves his shoulder and cups over his mouth tightly, and he starts to panic again. 

 

“Ms. Romanoff, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Beck says. Peter can hear the smug smile, like he knows he’s won, and he’s going to— 

 

“You’re lucky it’s me. Let the kid go, and you might live. Potentially.” Nat says. She doesn’t move other than to speak, and that’s somehow scarier than the almost playful way she handles other enemies. But she only acts like that when she knows they’re easy, and somehow Peter’s brain works enough to connect that she’s not overly confident in this fight, and that freaks him out even more.

 

Beck huffs. “My apologies, but no can do. Petey and I have places to be. Now if you’ll excuse us,” he says, and Peter hears the gut-wrenching whir of the drones, and he tries to scream to Natasha through the hand. 

 

Unlike with the Hydra man (who’s laying there, on the ground in front of them, almost definitely  _ dead _ and Peter can’t  _ breathe _ ), this happens fast. Completely and entirely fast. 

 

A drone shoots and Natasha shoots and lunges and rolls, and there are little explosions of blasts meeting bullets and she’s still alive, Natasha is still  _ alive _ and shooting and she throws something small and round, a little black disc, and it seems to stop suddenly and stick to thin air. 

 

But then there’s crackling, like little streaks of blue lightning flickering and glitching between the drones. The  _ drones _ . They reappear and make a whole manner of awful sounds and they look like they’re losing balance where they levitate. 

 

One falls and then the rest all follow it to the ground, and Peter doesn’t need to see Beck’s face to feel the fear and rage in the man’s grip on his small shoulder and jaw. He’s shouting something that Peter can’t hear over the ringing in his ears, but Natasha points her gun at him again. 

 

Through a haze of confusion and deafening tone in his head, Peter wants to feel relief again. For half a second, one heart-beat, they’re winning again, and Natasha is still with him. 

 

It doesn’t last. Another few seconds and there are bright flashes, and his eyes close on instinct. He can’t hear anything but he feels the heat and the waves of force, the wind off of, what? Explosions? Blasts? He doesn’t know, he doesn’t see it, but in panic his eyes open again just in time to see Natasha dodging a drone (not a shot from it, the  _ drone itself  _ launching at her) by leaping towards the window. 

 

The drone flings at her once more, while two others flank it, and it lands right in her midsection, propelling itself and Natasha out the window. 

 

Peter screams again. He doesn’t flail this time, petrified, frozen, but he’s screaming and he can barely even hear it over that unrelenting, piercing ring still in his ears. His vision blurs and Beck grabs him around the waist, yanking him harshly backwards, twisting him, throwing him over his shoulder. 

 

He hits the man’s back and kicks his stomach as hard as he can, the silver and white of the drones a mist through the wall of tears in his eyes, but Beck ignores him, marching them off down the hallway. 

 

* * *

 

_ Shit _ . 

 

Natasha can hear Peter’s crying for a few seconds after she’s half pushed, half jumps out the window. 

 

Sam catches her but they can’t get back to the kid with the drones on their tail, having to circle around the building. Once they get close enough to Hulk, who is dutifully destroying the robots, the drones ditch them and go after him, but that takes way too goddamn long. 

 

Tony’s cursing up a storm in the coms and Clint has been grazed by four different bullets already, and the drones just keep coming, and Natasha spares a raging thought to curse how this happened. How this group was able to get so organized and so prepared that they were able to take her маленький паук. 

 

The two of them drop to the ground for cover to avoid a flank of the increasingly uncoordinated Hydra agents. Sam swears at the holes in his wings, and Natasha reloads her guns. 

 

Whoever Tony doesn’t get to — Natasha is going to give hell. 

 

* * *

 

Beck hauls Peter down a few twists and turns until they get to another elevator. The boy grabs the opened doors, gripping as hard as he can, burning where his hands are already cut and scraping the bandages out of place. 

 

His hold must be tighter and better this time than it was in the compound, because his kidnapper has to let Peter slide off his shoulder and into the crook of his elbow, wrapping one arm around the small boy and prying his fingers away with his other hand. 

 

“If you don’t shut up and quit acting like a brat, I’m going to knock you out. Do you want that? Do you want to be put to sleep right now?” Beck nearly shouts. The doors close before Peter can run back out them and he manages to squirm away from the older man, tripping over his feet and clambering backwards into the corner of the elevator. 

 

Beck groans and rolls his eyes,  _ exasperated _ . He pushes a button. Peter can’t see which, he’s crying too much. 

 

“ _ Peter _ .  _ Enough _ . Jesus christ, calm down and get over here.” 

 

It takes the kid a moment to even realize that yes, his kidnapper seriously just told him to go back to him, willingly. When that does set in, he shakes his head furiously. Beck’s face falls from annoyed to terrifying. 

 

“Come here. Right now.” 

 

Peter shakes his head again. The elevator stutters, but it doesn’t stop, and he presses his back as close against the wall as he can. Beck nearly  _ growls _ at him and strides the step and a half forward, leaning down and grabbing Peter’s upper arms too hard, shaking him maniacally. 

 

“What did I say?! What did I tell you, kid?! Either do as you’re fucking told or you’re going to get hurt. You want to go back to our friend downstairs? I’m sure if he was  _ alive _ Hydra would love to have you!” Beck shouts. Peter can’t even form words, he’s just crying, fumbling to get his fingers on his web shooters in panic. 

 

The elevator doors open. Beck doesn’t wait for Peter to collect himself or respond, jerking the boy to his feet and dragging him out. They’re in a short, dark hallway, with a small staircase at the end. Peter tries to kick against each step to get out of Beck’s grip but the man doesn’t let him. He’s pulled up the short flight and out the door at the top. 

 

They’re on the roof.

 

_ They’re on the roof. _

 

There’s a helicopter on the other side, flanked by the almost definitely non-Hydra people that Beck had been yelling at earlier. They all wave their arms and Beck groans something like “idiots” under his breath, but Peter hardly hears it. 

 

The wind is whipping and the concrete is freezing against his sock-covered feet, and it’s pitch black out. 

 

He tries to tell himself that this is good. That they’re out, so the avengers will be able to get to him easier now. Mr. Stark and Mr. Wilson and Mr. Rhodes can all fly, and any one of them could take down the helicopter. But would they know Peter’s on it? Would they be able to get him out? 

 

Even if they do get him out, are they going to kill his kidnappers? Not that Peter’s particularly attached, but if he sees anyone else die, he might throw up and pass out.

 

They’re almost at the helicopter, Peter dragging his feet as much as he can, when there’s a big explosion behind them. 

 

Beck whips around, tugging Peter’s back against him once more, arm over small shoulders. 

 

_ Tony. _

 

It’s Mr. Stark, and Captain Rogers, and Mr. Barnes, Tony and Steve and Bucky are  _ here _ and then a moment later it’s Mr. Wilson and  _ Natasha _ , alive and guns out, they’re all  _ here _ and— 

 

“Let him go, Beck, or I swear to god I’m blowing your head off your neck.” Tony snaps. His voice is metallic through the suit and something about context and subconscious implications makes it comforting for Peter. 

 

“Yeah, about that. Listen,  _ Tony _ ,” Beck says Mr. Stark’s name like it’s poison in his mouth, and that sizzling sound returns, revealing drones. 

 

A wall of them. 

 

Peter looks around in panic and there must be over one hundred, at least, on either side of him and Beck, above them, all facing and wired and armed at the Avengers. 

 

He can hear Mr. Barton shouting something, distantly. His senses are doing a funny thing. Hawkeye sounds underwater but clear, and so does the Hulk’s roaring, and he can hear someone breathing heavily behind him, and he can feel every pulse of his heartbeat in slow motion as it flares through his body, but his vision is blurring and he doesn’t think that’s entirely from the tears. 

 

He can’t really hear what’s happening, but he can feel the vibrations from Beck talking, and he can see the figures of the other Avengers. For some reason, he focuses on Natasha. As he blinks his eyes clear, stuck on her, and her image sharpens, he can see— she’s looking at him. 

 

* * *

 

“I’m not a fool, ok? I know that any one of you could kill me. Might be a little more difficult with these guys,” Beck waves a hand to reference the drones,  _ Tony’s  _ drones floating around him, “but you could still do it. Could you stop me though, I wonder, before your toys kill him?” 

 

Tony’s blood has been boiling for the last twelve hours but it feels like every vessel in his body ruptures at once when Beck pats Peter’s head, smoothing his hair back. The kid flinches but his eyes stay locked on Natasha, small hands clinging to the forearm that keeps him trapped against his kidnapper.

 

(And Tony can swear to God he’s seen this before, but this time, the kid (the  _ child  _ ) some son of a bitch is holding hostage doesn’t have a homemade taser in his pocket.) 

 

“You made them, Stark. You should know how quick they fire. You wanna risk it? Be my guest.” 

 

“What the do you want, Beck?” Steve snaps. The deranged man has the audacity to roll his eyes.

 

(Tony can practically feel the heat of Bucky’s rage from beside him. Beck really picked the worst possible combo for himself: bringing Hydra into the Winter Soldier’s home and threatening Peter Parker. The guy’s got a knack for picking sour and soft spots— Tony will give him that.)

 

“Well, ideally, I’d like all of you dead or exiled, powerless. Ruined. Right now? I’d like to climb in that helicopter and get off this roof. I could always do that while you’re occupied with Edith and this kid’s corpse, but I’ll be honest, I don’t want to kill him. Don’t think I won’t, though.” Beck says. He shifts his hands so he’s holding onto both of Peter’s shoulders, and the kid wraps his arms around himself. He’s still looking at Natasha. 

 

Shit, Tony hopes she’s got a plan. 

 

Beck’s right. Iron Man’s outdone himself. There’s no way they could get to Peter in time before Edith kills him. 

 

Which is the big question, because either Beck is really good at bluffing, doesn’t  _ know _ that Edith is programmed never to harm Peter, or he somehow hacked the AI and overrode that safety net. 

 

All three of those are possible, and the psycho is right. None of them are willing to risk the kid. 

 

“So what’ll it be? You can watch in shame and misery as Spider-Man and I take flight, or you can play your cards, try and kill me before all two hundred and twelve of them kill you and the boy.” Beck prompts. Natasha shifts to their left and Tony takes a threatening step forward just to make sure the attention stays on him. 

 

Whatever she’s doing, please,  _ please  _ work.

 

* * *

 

Peter doesn’t even hear what Beck is saying. The hum of Mr. Stark’s voice is calming enough for his thoughts to slightly organize, but he doesn’t really comprehend anything he hears. 

 

Natasha makes eye contact with him. He knows she’s trying to communicate something, but shit, he doesn’t know  _ what _ . 

 

It’s not until she flexes one of her legs, balls up one of her fists, takes a tiny step backwards and twists her spine slightly. It’s like the most muted visual possible, but after a few seconds, Peter gets it. His eyes widen. 

 

She’d taught him some self defense moves. 

 

She taught him how to get out of a grip like this. 

 

Peter knows how to get out of a grip like this.

 

He takes a deep breath and nods slightly to her, and she gives him the smallest smile that he can still see with their distance. It’s gone in a moment, and her eyes are back on Beck. Peter blinks a few times, breathing hard. He can do this. He can do this. He can do this. 

 

Deep breath in. 

 

He lifts one foot and brings it back as hard as he can against Beck’s leg, his shin, hitting just under the man’s knee. It’s throws his kidnapper off just enough for Peter to twist, making room for him to bring both of his hands, fingers laced and balled into a large fist, down against the man’s waist. 

 

The boy is moving blind and deaf and frantic at this point but by the groan and Beck suddenly keeling over, Peter’s pretty sure he hit his mark. He pushes an elbow against the man and turns as harshly as he can, throwing himself away. 

 

A flash runs through his head and just before he’s out of arms reach, his hand flies back, grabbing the glasses off the man’s face. 

 

It’s a win and a lose. 

 

Beck catches his arm again and the drones go off, and maybe there is a program or a plan but to Peter it’s just a chaotic background as his vision is filling with a raging kidnapper. The man tries to grab the glasses from him and Peter kicks him in the stomach, propelling off his leg to yank his wrist from Beck’s grip. 

 

That works. Still shaken and reeling from the hit to the groin, the man releases him. 

 

And Peter pushes himself away— right off the ledge of the roof. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is finished, I just have to edit it and it’ll be up soon!
> 
> @ the readers who Did Not Sign Up for angst like this when reading my fluff collection: I’m sorry there’s more happy domestic avengers on the way
> 
> p.s. i wrote this over the course of a month so, it might be seem rushed? idk this has been on my mind a lot longer than it will be on yours, thanks for reading babes <3


	21. Unfriendlies pt. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter goes home. Iron Dad is a Dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! The end of the weirdly plotty, angsty mini series. After this, it’s back to our regularly scheduled domestic fluff program. Shorter chapter again. 
> 
> @ anyone who was shook by the end of the last chapter: bold of you to assume I’m emotionally capable of making Peter Parker need hugs and then /not/ giving them to him.

**** Tony doesn’t even remember what happened. 

 

Pure adrenaline had taken over so powerfully, so suddenly, that every single one of his brain functions slammed into autopilot and overload at once. 

 

He moved on instinct and instinct alone, shielding Natasha from a spray of drones firing as they spiraled out of control. Not actively being controlled by Beck, still with his orders in place, but still being hacked by Friday— the machines let loose short circuiting.

 

Stray blasts rained down as the bots collectively sunk to the ground, some of them swinging out of control and ramming into one another, spinning in chaos. 

 

Steve shielded himself, Sam covered Bucky, Tony’s suit took initiative in shooting miniature missiles at the most outlying and out of control drones, so nothing would up behind them while they stood there. 

 

As soon as it began it seemed like it was over, or maybe that was just the adrenaline, but the moment Natasha wasn’t in serious danger of being shot by seventeen drones at once, Tony was moving. 

 

He passed Beck’s body— could not possibly care less of whether the man was dead or alive after being shot by a rouge drone, but fired a magnetic net just in case the scumbag tried to crawl away. 

 

The only thing on Tony’s mind is Peter, and he makes it over the edge of the building, fighting to organize impulses to spot the kid and the impulse to drop like a deadweight and pray he catches the boy before he hits the ground. 

 

But he doesn’t… he doesn’t see him. 

 

Somehow that manages to terrify Tony even more than he already was. His scanners are flying over everything, heat signatures, visuals, there’s a layer of fucking x-ray vision within the sensors that sweep over everything in sight. 

 

For a couple horrifying moments, Tony doesn’t actually see anything, zipping around, panic on panic, oblivious to the shouting and questions and commotion above him and in his coms.

 

And then, over the roaring of his own pulse and breathing inside his head— 

 

“Mr. Stark? Can you- could you please help me?” 

 

Tony turns around as fast as he possibly can when in a levitating suit of armor. Lo and behold;  _ Peter _ . 

 

He’s safe, he’s  _ alive _ , he’s-

 

He’s hanging by a web.

 

Glasses on (so big on his small face), both hands clinging to the web that looks like it’s coming from under his sleeve, balled up and suspended against the wall of the warehouse.

 

“ _ Kid _ ,” Tony breathes. He hovers over to meet him and scoops him up, god, he's even tinier when Tony's in the armor. The boy shakes off the web and he's breathing too fast but then again, he is a couple stories above ground. The billionaire is careful to move slow and steady until Peter is secure, only beginning the cautious flight back up when the kid is stable. “He’s ok, he’s ok, I’ve got him.” He says into the coms. Then, to Peter: “I’ve got you, I got you, you’re ok.”

 

He’s not entirely sure who needs to hear it more. 

 

Peter just nods, arms and legs wrapped tightly around the neck and torso of the Iron Man suit. Tony does his very best not to crush the kid with how firmly he holds him. 

 

Just before reaching the top, Tony realizes that there is most likely at least one corpse on the roof, and though he knows the other Avengers will want to see the kid asap, he doesn’t want to traumatize Peter any more than he already has been. That, and there are still some Hydra goons around, attempting to flee, and every moment that Peter is here he’s still in danger. 

 

“Alright, I’m getting Peter out of here. I’ll meet you all back at the compound.” Tony says. He turns them away from the roof, rocketing away from the warehouse. As he does, he lets the nanoparticles fan out, encasing Peter in sleek red and gold, shielding him from the blistering wind as Tony wastes no time in getting them home. 

 

Peter doesn’t say anything on the flight back aside from answering Tony’s questions about this health and wellbeing. When it becomes clear that the kid isn’t in any awful pain and has no serious injuries, Tony lets the conversation drop. He can't stop eyeing the dirty bandages around his hands, though.

 

They can talk when they get back. Right now, Tony’s just basking in the relief of having his kid back. 

 

By the way Peter clings to him, the boy feels the same way. 

 

* * *

 

Peter cries a lot when he sees Happy in the medbay. 

 

At first Tony thinks it’s just the inevitable guilt, but he’s only half right. The kid doesn’t start apologizing until after he cries out in surprise and relief that, “Happy! You’re  _ alive  _ !” and Tony realizes that the last time the boy saw his head of security, the manwas bleeding out on the kitchen floor. 

 

It’s another notch on a list of reasons why Tony wants to personally crush Quentin Beck’s skull, but— he won’t be getting the chance. Shield came in to do clean-up, and while Beck was alive (unfortunately), he was in extremely poor condition. Even if he does live, he’ll be in Shield custody. 

 

Maybe Tony could sway Fury. Just a little something for nearly killing one of his best friends and his surrogate son.

 

(Though, Tony will admit, getting shot in the chest after an eight year old sized kid punched him in the dick is pretty satisfying.)

 

After the medbay officers have cleared Peter and re-bandaged his hands (and Tony feels a lot of very strong emotions when Peter admits that Beck had wrapped them at the warehouse, and it hurt a lot) but before anyone with a psychology degree and a badge gets to the kid, Sam takes one look at him and whispers to the rest of the team that it hasn’t actually sunk it for him yet. 

 

Tony believes it. Peter lets people check him out warily but mostly silent, rarely letting go of Tony’s or another avenger’s hand or shirt sleeve the entire time. When the on-deck counselor asks him how he’s feeling, he simply says, “Cold.”

 

They don’t push. They let him get cleaned up and have dinner— Tony orders Italian for everyone, but Peter barely eats— and it’s late. They’ve all had one of the longest and shittiest days any of them have experienced in a hot minute, so they go to bed. 

 

Or, they try to. What really happens is that Peter looks afraid any time anyone starts to get up and leave the living room, and somehow the end up camping out there together. 

 

The whole team.

 

In the living room. 

 

They each have bedrooms with luxurious beds and high thread count blankets and special accommodations, and there’s, what, nine, ten of them? And yet they roll out sleeping bags and fetch blankets and collect cushions from throughout the compound, creating one giant nest of comfort and putting on the discovery channel. Tony sits with Pepper at one side and Steve on the other, Peter in his lap, curled up.

 

The boy is wrapped in a child’s blanket, one that most kids probably would’ve grown out of by his size, but he finds comfort in it and no one’s complaining about the duck hood on the pastel yellow fluffy blanket. 

 

(It's not like any of them are  _actually_ opposed to the slumber party. Thor himself probably couldn't pry them away from the kid right about now.)

 

(Peter hides his face in Tony's chest, so he doesn't see, but the older man knows that the rest of the team can't go more than five minutes, two and a half for Bucky, without glancing back— just to make sure the boy is still there.)

 

Watching but not really paying attention to the program, Tony wonders when it will “hit” Peter. How he’ll handle it. 

 

Not the worst thing that’s ever happened to any of them, but things are different this time. Peter is powerless and a child and he’s got to deal with both of those things, as well as dealing with the childish influence on his brain dealing with the whole event. 

 

Tony doesn’t know what to expect, but before he can imagine any catastrophe situations (oh  _ god _ , May is going to  _ kill him  _ ), Peter starts to tremble. 

 

* * *

 

He felt… dazed, really. 

 

Since arriving back at the compound, he’s felt dazed. Like he’s not really processing anything that happened, but also, he is? He knows what happened, and it kind of feels like he’s skipped every other phase or stage of reacting to that and gone straight to either acceptance or some kind of repression. 

 

Which. Well. 

 

That’s not entirely unusual for Peter.

 

But as he sits there, balled up and soaking in all the warmth from Tony and Steve and Pepper that he can, knowing that just a few feet in any direction is another Avenger, another friend here to protect him (which he only feels slightly guilty about), he rubs his hands together. They itch, and Dr. Banner said it’s because they’re healing, but. 

 

He thinks about Beck using the disinfectant and trying to coddle him the way Tony is now. He thinks about how Beck had ripped him away from doors and frames that he clung to, how that’s what got him the cuts anyways. 

 

He thinks about how the web he clung to dug into the gashes and made them sting when he fell off the roof. 

 

That’s what does him in. 

 

Not thinking about all the threats Beck and that Hydra man had made, not thinking about how close he was to getting hurt, not thinking about how he  _ did  _ get hurt, or even the thoughts of Happy and Natasha almost dying. 

 

It’s remembering how his web shooters saved his life. How he was already reaching for them and just had to shoot, snapping himself out of the free fall and getting slammed against the wall of the building, clinging for dear life. What if he hadn’t already been reaching for them? What if he hadn’t  _ had _ them? Would Tony have gotten him in time? 

 

He almost  _ died _ and he has actually died before but it’s different this time because this wasn’t reversible, this wasn’t magic or the biggest threat in the universe, it was just  _ falling _ . 

 

Peter almost  _ died  _ and that’s what really gets him. 

 

He sniffles quietly but starts to shake, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes closed, breathing fast. 

 

“Hey, hey, you’re alright now, Peter. You’re ok now,” Tony says, pulling him closer. That must draw the attention of the others, because then there are heavy hands on his back and his legs, firm, grounding touches, soothing. A sob escapes him and Tony puts a hand on his head, tucking him against the man’s chest. 

 

“Let it out, Pete, you’re safe now.” Sam whispers. 

 

_ Safe _ . 

 

Peter cries for a long time. 

 

He only outright sobs for a while, the hysteria running its course relatively quickly, but he can’t stop sniffling and blinking out salty tears for easily over an hour. 

 

When it’s finally done, when he’s blubbered out every panicked truth and apology he can, after the Avengers reassure him, comfort him, make promises that they’ll never let anything like that happen ever again— Peter’s tired. 

 

He’s really,  _ really _ tired. 

 

He rests against Tony’s chest and slips in and out of consciousness for a while, but with his ear pressed against the man, he can hear the heartbeat of a person who is not asleep. Natasha passes out with her head in Bruce’s lap and Rhodey and Clint do leave, having to coordinate with Shield, but Peter doesn’t want to bother them, so he keeps quiet. 

 

Steve and Bucky probably aren’t asleep, though they look it, and Sam is awake, head in his hand, gazing out the window. It doesn’t take a genius to guess that he’s checking in on Peter in his peripheral vision, though.

 

“‘m sorry, Mr. Stark.” Peter mumbles, some time in the early morning. 

 

“You have nothing to be sorry for, kid. None of this was your fault. That guy was crazy, ok, that’s not on you.” Tony replies quietly. Pepper’s asleep on his shoulder. 

 

“I mean about the whole, um, small-me.. thing…” Peter whispers. He can practically feel Tony frown.

 

“Pete-”

 

“I should’ve listened to you, ‘cause if I was still Spider-Man, none of this would’ve happened. So ‘m.. sorry.” 

 

Tony shifts, and one arm is still keeping Peter close but the other comes around, enveloping the boy entirely, scratching lightly at his back through the blanket and fresh hoodie.

 

“Listen to me, kid, ‘cause I’m about to tell you something that’s going to blow your mind. Ready? Do you know why Edith listened to you, when you transferred control to Beck?” The man prompts. Peter cringes. 

 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

 

“No no no, you’ve said that thirty times already and it wasn’t your fault. If you hadn’t, Happy could've died, ok? You saved his life by not challenging someone who obviously had the upper hand. But that’s not the point, kid. Do you know what it worked? Why Edith obeyed you even though you’re at least two times smaller and your voice is  _ significantly  _ squeakier?” Tony says. Peter hums, shaking his head, melting at the comfort of the backrub. 

 

“It’s because you’re still Spider-Man, Pete. Spider-Man isn’t- that’s not some other person, some perfect hero that you occasionally portray, alright? That’s you. Spider-Man is Peter Parker. Spider-Man is smart and quick and strong and good because Peter Parker is those things.” 

 

Peter sniffles. Tony doesn’t stop. 

 

“You know there are only three people who can get control of Edith, Pete? It’s me, Pepper, and you. Doesn’t matter if you don’t have your mutant powers, kid— I still trust you with this. Because you aren’t a hero for putting on a suit and webbin’ around, bud. I’m- god, Pete, I’m so proud of you.” 

 

That throws the boy for a loop. He blinks a few times, then looks up, out from under the overhang of the duck hood and messy curls splayed over his forehead. 

 

“You’re… you are?” 

 

Tony rolls his eyes and smirks. 

 

“No shit, Pete. You were so brave and so smart, you really saved yourself, kiddo. You got the glasses, you got out of Beck’s hold, you  _ caught _ yourself. We didn’t do any of that. You got out of there, you stopped him. That was all you, kid.” He says, and the grin he gives Peter is so genuine and so wonderful. Peter tears up again. 

 

Tony brushes some of the hair off his face and plants a quick kiss over the duck hood. 

 

“Gosh, don’t look at me like that. Makin’ me feel like the worst mentor in the world. Those damn puppy eyes, jesus.” The man quips softly. Peter giggles, almost silent and a little wet, nosing back in against the warmth of Tony. His hands aren’t bothering him anymore. 

 

They sit in silence for a while. Peter isn’t sure if Mr. Stark is asleep or not, but his heart rate has evened out. Steady and certain. Safe. 

 

“G’night, Tony. Love you.” The kid mumbles. He doesn’t see Tony smile, eyes still closed. 

 

“Goodnight, Pete. Love you, too.”


End file.
